ANDRE  GASTA1GNE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


T: 


FATA    MORGANA 


"  Helia  at  the  very  summit  of  the  car  : 


FATA  MORGANA 


A   ROMANCE    OF   ART   STUDENT 
LIFE    IN    PARIS 


BY 


ANDRE   CASTAIGNE 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 
BY   THE   AUTHOR 


NEW   YORK 
THE   CENTURY   CO. 

1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published  November,  1904 


THE  DEVlNNE  PRE80 


TO  HIS   MANY  FEIENDS   IN   AMERICA 

THIS   BOOK  IS   DEDICATED 

BY  THE  AUTHOR 


2041812 


CONTENTS 
PART  I 

PAGE 

ETHEL  AND  HELIA 1 

CHAPTER 

i  AFTER  THE  QUAT'Z-ARTS  BALL 3 

ii  THE  FATA  MORGANA 17 

in  REMEMBERING  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS 29 

iv  WHEN  PHIL  CAME  TO  PARIS 51 

v  AN  INITIATION  INTO  ART 65 

vi  THE  HANGING  GARDENS  OF  PARIS 83 

vn  A  RUDE  AWAKENING 99 

vni  THE  END  OF  THE  GUITAR 102 

ix  ALAS!  POOR  HELIA! 117 

x  Miss  ETHEL  ROWRER  OF  CHICAGO 125 

xi  AN  APARTMENT  IN  THE  LATIN  QUARTER 133 

xii  ETHEL'S  IDEA  OF  A  MAN 139 

PART  II 
MORE  THAN  QUEEN 151 

i  WANTED— A  DUCHESS! 153 

ii  A  PARISIAN  D£BUT 167 

in  PHIL,  CHAMPION  OF  Miss  ROWRER 185 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

iv  'TwiXT  DOG  AND  POET 196 

v  LITTLE  SISTER  OF  A  STAR 201 

vi  THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY 215 

vn  CARACAL'S  NARROW  ESCAPE 232 

vni  A  QUEEN  FOR  KINGS 249 

PART  III 
YOUTHFUL  FOLLIES 269 

i  TEUFF-TEUFF  !  TEUFF!  BRRR! 271 

ii  IN  CAMP 284 

in  GRAND'MERE  VERSUS  GRANDMA 301 

iv  THROUGH  THE  COUNTRY  FAIR 317 

v  A  BANQUET  ON  THE  SAWDUST 330 

vi  WAS  POUFAILLE  RIGHT? 347 

vii  "A  TRUE  HEART  LOVES  BUT  ONCE  " 360 

PART  IV 
CONSCIENCE 377 

i  ON  THE  BLUE  SEA 379 

ii  ETHEL'S  VICTORY 392 

in  A  CASTLE  OF  THE  ADRIATIC 398 

iv  THE  LITTLE  DUKE 410 

v  VISITING  THE  SORCERESS 417 

vi  THE  FIGHT 431 

vii  THE  FATEFUL  DAY  BEGINS 444 

viii  FATA  MORGANA  TO  THE  RESCUE  ! 452 

ix  STRICKEN  IN  TRIUMPH 464 

x  "ON  YOUR  KNEES!" 478 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Helia  at  the  very  summit  of  the  car Frontispiece 

The  Concierge 5 

The  Cow  Painting 13 

The  Great  Canvas 21 

The  Little  Saint  John 31 

Helia  and  her  "Professor" 35 

Phil  courting  Helia  in  the  Yard 43 

Phil  arrives  at  the  Hotel 53 

Hammering  the  clay  with  a  terrific  blow  of  his  fist  .  .  .  59 

Socrate  at  Deux  Magots 69 

Stripped  to  the  waist 75 

"  They  are  pigs !  " 79 

On  the  Roofs  of  the  Louvre 91 

"Only  put  your  soul  into  it!  " 103 

He  encumbered  the  room 113 

A  magnificent  guardian  stopped  her 123 

Miss  Ethel  and  Empress  Eugenie 129 

Ethel,  who  was  their  leader 145 

"  Here  is  the  engraving  " 159 

Giving  the  Flower  to  the  Child 169 

Cemetery 173 

At  the  Circus 181 

ix 


x  LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Phil  rose  up,  pale  with  anger 193 

Suddenly  Socrate  recognized  Phil 199 

"To  whom  shall  I  write?" 205 

He  approached  in  visible  embarrassment 217 

Poufaille's  Goods  Ready  for  Auction 227 

The  Punch  d'lndignation 235 

Suzanne  and  Poufaille  at  the  Louvre 253 

Ethel  and  the  Royal  Throne 265 

Watching  the  Arrival  of  the  Rowrers 273 

The  Arrival  of  the  Rowrers 277 

Ethel  and  the  Little  Peasant  Girls 291 

Phil  listening  to  Ethel 297 

They  went  down  into  the  garden 311 

Suzanne  and  Poufaille  at  the  Country  Fair 319 

The  Banquet  in  the  Ring  of  the  Circus 333 

Phil  watching  Helia  and  Socrate 351 

Ethel  stood  upright  in  the  ruined  colonnade 371 

She  dreamed  under  a  sky  studded  with  stars 389 

She  arose  angrily 395 

The  Searchlight  on  the  Castle 407 

Visiting  the  Castle 413 

"  Does  the  sight  of  so  many  weapons  make  you  nervous?" .  421 

Helia  facing  the  Assailants 433 

The  Return  to  the  City 439 

The  Delegates ,  . 447 

"Help  me! "he  cried 457 

The  peddler  of  pious  pictures 467 

The  duke  stood  alone 473 

"My  people  await  their  duchess" 483 


PAKT  I 
ETHEL  AND  HELIA 


FATA   MORGANA 

CHAPTER  I 

AFTER    THE   QUAT'z-ABTS   BALL 

AT   daybreak,   Phil  Longwill,  the  young  American 

i\  painter,  entered  his  studio,  threw  away  his  cigar, 
4  \  gulped  down  the  contents  of  his  water-jug — and 
then  slipped  into  an  arm-chair  and  dozed. 

What  a  night ! 

In  his  half-sleep  he  thought  he  was  still  at  the  Quat'z- 
Arts  Ball,  from  which  he  had  just  come ;  he  still  heard 
the  murmuring  noise  of  the  multitude,  like  the  prolonged 
"moo-o-o"  of  oxen  in  the  stable;  and  there  still  moved 
before  his  eyes  the  restless  throng,  masked  in  the  skins 
of  beasts  or  trailing  gilt-embroidered  mantles. 

His  dreaming  had  the  sharp  relief  of  life;  but  it  was 
the  car  on  which  Helia  was  drawn — Helia  the  circus-girl, 
the  little  friend  of  his  boyhood,  whom  he  had  not  seen 
for  so  long  and  whom  he  found  here  with  surprise— it 
was  this  car,  with  the  superb  figure  of  Helia  at  its  sum- 
mit, which  eclipsed  all  the  rest. 

The  car  itself  was  an  attention  of  Phil's  friends. 
They  had  chosen  for  its  subject  the  personages  of  the 


4  FATA  MORGANA 

"Fata  Morgana"— a  great  decorative  picture  which  Phil 
was  finishing  for  the  Duke  of  Morgania. 

Helia,  upright  at  the  very  summit  of  the  car,  like  an 
idol  at  the  pinnacle  of  a  temple,  personified  Morgana, 
the  fairy,  the  saint,  the  legendary  Queen  of  the  Adriatic. 
Lower  down,  seated  at  the  four  corners,  Thilda,  Marka, 
Rhodai's  the  slave,  and  Bertha  the  Amazon— the  four 
heroines  of  Morgania — kept  watch  and  ward  over  their 
queen. 

The  car,  drawn  by  knights,  advanced  amid  hushed 
admiration.  Helia  seemed  to  float  above  the  sea  of 
heads,  and  behind  her  the  great  hall  was  ablaze  with 
lights. 

Phil,  dozing  in  his  arm-chair,  saw  himself,  clad  in  his 
magnificent  Indian  costume,  marching  at  the  head  of 
the  car,  brandishing  his  tomahawk  in  honor  of  Morgana. 
Then,  at  the  breaking  up  of  the  cortege  when  the  pro- 
cession was  over,  there  were  the  supper-tables  taken  by 
storm  amid  cries  and  laughter. 

And  the  feast  began. 

Helmets  and  swords  ceased  to  shine.  Hands  laid 
down  battle-axes  to  wield  knives  and  forks;  warriors 
fell  upon  the  food  as  they  might  have  done  after  a  night 
of  pillage.  Each  man  kissed  his  fair  neighbor.  Pou- 
faille,  the  sculptor,  disguised  as  the  prehistoric  man,  put 
his  hairy  muzzle  against  the  rosy  cheeks  of  Suzanne,  his 
model.  Close  at  hand,  Phil,  the  Indian  chief,  seated  at 
the  table  of  the  Duke  of  Morgania,  talked  with  Helia  of 
old  times,  of  the  strolling  circus  in  which  he  had  known 
her,  of  their  meeting  in  her  dressing-room  below  the 
benches ;  and  he  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice : 


The  Concierge 


AFTER  THE  QUAT'Z-ARTS   BALL  7 

"Do  you  remember  when  I  used  to  go  to  wait  for 
you  ? ' ' 

"And  you,"  answered  Helia,  "the  flowers  you  gave 
me— do  you  remember?" 

But  now  it  was  full  day  and  the  sun  was  lighting  up 
the  studio.  Phil's  memories  faded  little  by  little,  scat- 
tered by  the  early  morning  cries  of  Paris.  The  shrill 
piping  of  the  wandering  plumber  awakened  him  with  a 
start  just  as  he  was  dropping  off  into  real  sleep  and 
seeing  in  his  dream  Helia  soar  through  a  strange  world 
amid  heavenly  splendors. 

"Here  's  the  morning  paper,  M.  Longwill,"  said  the 
old  concierge,  who  came  up  with  the  mail ;  but  he  stopped 
short  with  open  mouth  at  the  sight  of  Phil 's  costume.  To 
dress  one's  self  like  that!  Etait-il  Dieu  possible!  They 
did  n  't  have  such  ideas  in  his  time ! 

Certainly,  Phil  was  an  odd  figure  in  his  Indian  dress. 
If  he  lowered  his  head  he  risked  scratching  his  chin 
against  the  bear's  claws  of  his  collar.  He  was  clad  in 
leather  and  glass  beads.  There  were  feathers  down  his 
legs  and  a  calumet  was  stuck  in  his  belt.  At  his  feet 
lay  the  tomahawk  which  he  had  brandished  a  few  hours 
before  in  honor  of  beautiful  Helia.  He  had  the  look  of 
a  veritable  savage.  No  one  would  have  recognized  in  him 
the  society  painter,  descendant  of  Philidor  de  Longue- 
ville,  the  Protestant  banished  from  France  by  Louis 
XIV,  who  became  a  great  proprietor  in  Virginia. 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  the  concierge  began  again,  "in  the 
old  times  when  you  took  walks  with  Mile.  Helia  in  my 
garden  on  the  roofs  of  the  Louvre,  where  I  was  inspector, 
you  did  n't  need  to  dress  up  like  that  to  amuse  yourself. 
Ah,  it  was  the  good  time  then !  I  remember  one  day— ' 


8  FATA  MORGANA 

1 '  I  say,  concierge, ' '  interrupted  Phil,  in  a  solemn  tone ; 
"go  down  quick  and  get  me  a  bottle  of  seltzer  water.  I 
am  dying  of  thirst!" 

The  concierge  disappeared. 

"Ouf !"  Phil  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  "The  old  man, 
with  his  good  old  times,  was  starting  off  on  his  remem- 
brances. He  is  in  for  two  hours  when  he  begins  with  the 
Louvre  garden.  Bah!  that 's  all  f ol-de-rol, ' '  he  added, 
smoothing  his  hair  with  his  hand,  "not  to  speak  of  my 
having  so  many  things  to  do  this  morning.  Let  's  see : 
first,  Miss  Rowrer;  then  the  duke  is  to  bring  Helia.  It 
appears  that  Helia  has  the  legendary  Morgana  type,— so 
the  duke  told  me,  after  seeing  her  last  night, — and,  at 
the  duke's  request,  she  agrees  to  pose  for  my  picture. 
Oh,  I  was  forgetting!  I  am  expecting  Caracal  also." 

Phil  detested  Caracal.  This  critic  was  his  bete  noire, 
a  man  sweet  and  bitter  at  the  same  time,  who  talked  of 
him  behind  his  back  as  a  painter  for  pork-packers  and 
a  dauber  without  talent. 

Phil  had  never  forgotten  his  first  impression  of  the 
critic.  He  met  him  shortly  after  his  arrival  in  Paris,  in 
the  studio  of  the  sculptor  Poufaille,  and  later  on  in  the 
Restaurant  de  la  Mere  Michel,  and  at  the  Cafe  des  Deux 
Magots,  during  his  student  years.  Caracal  was  out- 
wardly correct  and  an  intimate  friend  of  the  duke,  and 
he  was  received  at  the  Rowrers';  and  Phil  had  to  be 
agreeable  to  him.  Nevertheless,  he  was  going  to  play 
him  a  trick. 

As  he  opened  the  morning  paper,  Phil  looked  around 
to  assure  himself  that  the  pictures  in  his  studio  had  their 
faces  turned  to  the  wall,  and  that  his  painting  of  the 


AFTER  THE   QUAT'Z-ARTS  BALL  9 

Fata  Morgana  was  covered  with  a  veil.  It  was  for  Cara- 
cal 's  benefit  that  he  had  made  these  arrangements  the 
evening  before ;  and  he  smiled  as  he  gave  a  glance  at  the 
portiere  which  separated  his  studio  from  a  little  adjoin- 
ing room,  where  his  trick  was  ready. 

"Ah,  I  'm  commonplace,  am  I— no  originality?  We 
shall  see ! "  he  said  to  himself,  laughing. 

"What  's  the  news?"  Phil  went  on,  as  he  looked  ab- 
sently through  the  paper.  "  'A  Description  of  the  Bal 
des  Quat  'z- Arts. '  Pass ! — '  A  Case  of  Treason. '  Pass ! — 
'War  Declared.'  Diable!  'The  Fleet  of  the  Prince  of 
Monaco  Threatening  English  Ports.'  Pass!— Good! 
Here  's  another  extract  from  the  'Tocsin':  'The  Tomb 
of  Richard  the  Lion-hearted  to  be  Stolen  from  France ! 
Interference  of  Yankee  Gold  in  French  Politics,'  signed 
'An  Indignant  Patriot.'  " 

The  foolishness  of  the  article  did  not  prevent  Phil's 
reading  it  to  the  end. 

"That  's  all  very  amusing,"  he  thought;  "but  why 
these  personal  allusions  ?  What  have  the  Rowrers  to  do 
with  it?  And  who  can  be  writing  such  nonsense?" 

Phil  turned  the  page  disdainfully,  when  a  sound  in 
the  room  made  him  lift  his  eyes. 

Caracal  stood  before  him. 

Phil  had  not  heard  him  come  in.  Caracal  entered 
without  knocking,  as  the  concierge  in  his  hurry  had  for- 
gotten to  close  the  door.  The  critic  looked  mockingly 
at  Phil,  like  those  devils  who,  in  German  legends,  start 
up  from  a  hole  in  the  floor  and  offer  you  some  crooked 
bargain  in  exchange  for  your  soul.  He  greeted  Phil  with 
an  affectation  of  politeness. 


10  FATA   MORGANA 

"How  are  you,  cher  ami?" 

Caracal  turned  the  glitter  of  his  monocle  on  the  In- 
dian costume. 

"Very,  very  curious — very  amusing — very  American! 
From  last  night's  ball,  doubtless?" 

For  once  there  was  nothing  to  say,  and  Caracal  was 
right.  It  was  really  very  American. 

Occupied  with  his  paper,  Phil  had  forgotten  to  change 
his  costume.  He  rose,  excused  himself  briefly,  and  asked 
after  Caracal 's  health. 

"Thanks,  cher  ami,  I  'm  very  well;  allow  me  to  ad- 
mire you ! ' ' 

"Wait  a  bit,"  thought  Phil  to  himself.  "I  '11  give 
you  something  to  admire!" 

But  Caracal,  with  his  squirrel-like  activity,  was  al- 
ready inspecting  the  studio  and  the  pictures  which  were 
turned  with  their  faces  to  the  wall. 

"Oh,  ho!"  he  asked,  "so  you  blush  for  your  work, 
mon  cher?  Yet  your  talent  is  very  interesting,  very 
American. ' ' 

"Don't  let  us  talk  of  such  trifles,"  said  Phil ;  "I  show 
them  only  to  the  ignorant.  You  're  not  really  acquainted 
with  my  works,  M.  Caracal — those  which  I  paint  for 
myself  alone,  those  into  which  I  put  my  soul,  as  your 
friend,  the  painter-philosopher  Socrate,  used  to  say.  Al- 
low me  to  show  them  to  you.  Enter,  M.  Caracal ! ' ' 

Lifting  the  portiere  of  the  little  room,  Phil  showed  the 
way  to  Caracal,  who  stopped  on  the  threshold  in  amaze- 
ment. Phil  was  fond  of  practical  jokes.  With  imper- 
turbable seriousness  he  had  gathered  in  this  room  all 
the  grotesque  works  which  he  had  found  among  the  art- 


AFTER  THE  QUAT'Z-ARTS  BALL  11 

junk-dealers  in  his  chance  explorations.  If  he  found 
a  picture  cast  aside,— provided  it  was  utterly  bad,— Phil 
bought  it.  There  was  one  canvas,  among  the  others, 
which  represented  cows— something  so  fearful  that  Phil, 
the  first  time  he  saw  it,  scarcely  knew  whether  to  groan, 
or  shout  with  laughter. 

It  was  in  his  concierge's  lodge  that  Phil  one  day  had 
conceived  the  idea  of  this  collection.  The  old  man  of 
"my  time,"  the  former  inspector  of  the  Louvre  roofs, 
had  on  his  chimney  under  bell-glasses  two  little  person- 
ages—Monsieur and  Madame— made  from  lobster-shells ; 
a  claw  formed  the  nose,  and  the  tail  was  turned  into 
coat-skirts. 

"Eureka!"  thought  Phil,  when  he  saw  them.  "But 
I  must  have  something  better  still."  And  he  at  once 
began  a  search  through  the  slums  of  impressionism  and 
modern  style ;  and  he  had  found  what  he  wanted. 

"Eh  bien,  M.  Caracal,  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 
asked  Phil. 

Caracal,  at  first  upset,  pulled  himself  together. 

"Bravo,  mon  cher!  you  Ve  found  your  line!  You  are 
revealed  to  yourself!  My  congratulations,  cher  ami!" 

"Does  the  ignoramus  take  it  seriously? — No;  that 
would  be  too  funny!"  Phil  said  to  himself  amazed  in 
his  turn. 

Phil,  with  his  glass  beads  jingling  at  every  step,  took 
the  cow  painting  and  set  it  in  full  light.  The  frightful 
beasts  lowered  their  crocodile  heads  to  graze  in  a  fan- 
tastic meadow  whose  daisies  resembled  white  plates  with 
egg-yolks  in  the  middle. 

Phil  looked  at  Caracal  and  winked  his  eye.     Caracal 


12  FATA  MORGANA 

answered  by  a  prudent  shrug.  Phil  was  one  of  those 
rare  Americans  who  can  shrug  and  wink.  The  mute 
dialogue  went  on: 

' '  That  catches  you,  mon  vieux  Caracal ! ' '  said  the 
wink. 

"Idiot!"  answered  the  shoulders;  "you  '11  pay  me  for 
this — to  make  fun  of  me — Caracal!" 

"Each  has  his  turn!"  winked  Phil. 

Caracal  fixed  his  eye-glass  and  stared  at  the  picture. 

"Very— very  interesting— very  original.  That  's  art 
— that  ought  to  be  at  the  Luxembourg!  Oughtn't  it, 
cher  ami?" 

"The  deuce!"  thought  Phil. 

"And  this,  look  at  this!"  said  Caracal,  taking  up  an 
abominable  sketch  for  a  pork-butcher's  sign.  "Here  's 
the  quintessence  of  animalism !  Bravo,  mon  cher,  you  're 
the  man  I  'm  looking  for!" 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Phil,  to  himself. 

"Let  me  explain.  I  am  looking  for  an  aritst  to  illus- 
trate my  new  novel." 

Phil  made  a  gesture  of  protest. 

"No  commonplace  book,"  Caracal  went  on,  "but  a 
bitter,  bleeding  slice  of  life — something  which  takes  you 
by  the  throat,  makes  you  weep  and  shriek  and  pant ! ' ' 

Caracal  explained  his  book.  The  general  idea  (an  idea 
of  genius,  according  to  him)  was  this:  A  vast  house 
rises  in  the  midst  of  Paris,  all  of  glass,  transparent  from 
top  to  bottom,  without  curtains.  Therein  swarm  all  the 
vices;  yet  there  are  no  crimes,  so  soft  and  weak-willed 
are  the  personages,  so  incapable  of  anger  or  hatred.  And 
they  drag  themselves  from  floor  to  floor,  on  all-fours  like 


•: 


The  Cow  Painting 


AFTER  THE  QUAT'Z-ARTS  BALL  15 

swine.  Title,  "The  House  of  Glass"— and  there  you 
are! 

"And  you  offer  me  collaboration  in  such  nastiness?" 
said  Phil. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?"  replied  Cara- 
cal. 

"It  's  my  idea  of  your  literature,  and  I  say  what  I 
think." 

"Let  it  be  so,  mon  cher;  we  '11  say  no  more  about  it. 
Rather  let  us  look  at  your  beautiful  works.  That  cow 
painting  is  superb !  It  's  as  fine  as  a  Millet.  If  it  's  for 
sale,  I  '11  buy  it!" 

"If  you  want  it,  take  it.  I  won't  sell  it.  I  '11  give  it 
to  you." 

They  came  back  into  the  studio.  Caracal,  well  pleased 
with  the  gift,  swung  «his  monocle  familiarly.  Then  they 
talked  of  other  things,  of  yesterday's  ball,  of  the  "Toc- 
sin," whose  sensational  head-lines  stared  at  them  from 
the  floor. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that?"  Phil  asked,  pointing 
to  the  newspaper. 

"  It  's  idiotic,  mon  cher,  utterly  idiotic.  I  don 't  know 
where  Vieillecloche  picks  up  such  asinine  stuff." 

' '  Who  does  the  articles  for  him  ? ' '  demanded  Phil. 

"Who  knows?"  answered  Caracal. 

With  a  glance  at  the  clock,  Phil  excused  himself. 

"Will  you  permit  me?  I  must  get  ready — the  con- 
cierge is  going  to  do  up  the  studio.  Be  seated,  please; 
I  '11  be  with  you  again  in  a  moment." 

Caracal  sat  down  on  a  lounge  to  wait  for  Phil,  who 
went  to  his  room  to  change  his  Indian  costume. 


16  FATA  MORGANA 

The  concierge  returned.  He  began  dusting  the  studio, 
and  in  his  zeal  rubbed  off  half  a  pastel  with  his  feather 
duster.  He  pulled  the  veil  from  sketches,  and  set  the 
easels  in  place.  The  studio  began  to  be  peopled  with 
half-finished  portraits,  with  designs,  with  studies  of  every 
kind,  representing  an  immense  amount  of  labor.  The 
canvas  of  Morgana,  in  particular,  rid  of  the  cover  which 
veiled  it,  illuminated  all  with  a  glow  of  legend.  The 
figure  of  the  fairy  queen  was  barely  indicated ;  but  Helia 
was  to  pose  for  Phil,  as  she  had  promised,  and  with  a 
month's  work  all  would  be  finished. 

Caracal,  in  spite  of  his  jealous  ignorance,  could  not 
help  admiring  the  superb  production ;  but  he  rubbed  his 
hands  as  he  thought  of  the  picture  of  the  cows  which  he 
was  going  to  carry  away  with  him.  He  glanced  slyly 
at  Phil,  who  came  back  smartly  dressed  and  refreshed 
from  his  bath,  fit  and  full  of  the  joy  of  life,  ready  for 
work,  in  spite  of  his  sleepless  night. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    FATA    MORGANA 

PHIL  prepared  his  colors.  The  ball  was  forgotten, 
and  the  Indian  costume  was  laid  away  for  an- 
other year.  Outside,  the  cries  of  the  plumber  and 
old-clo'  man  alternated,  like  a  trombone  after  a  fife; 
and  a  barrel-organ  was  grinding  below  on  the  sidewalk. 
Phil,  brushes  in  hand,  spoke  now  and  then  a  word 
with  Caracal,  lying  on  the  sofa. 

"Here  are  my  visitors,"  said  Phil,  suddenly. 

From  the  stairway  came  the  sound  of  voices,  the  light 
tread  of  feet,  the  swish  of  skirts. 

The  bell  rang. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,  M.  le  Due,"  said  Phil,  as  he 
opened  the  door.  "Come  in,  I  beg  of  you!  Come  in, 
Mile.  Helia!" 

"I  have  brought  you  Mile.  Helia,"  the  duke  said. 
' '  You  know,  she  consents  to  pose  for  you.  Look !  she  's 
not  even  tired  after  such  a  night!" 

"Oh,  as  for  me,  I  'm  used  to  it,"  said  Helia,— "a 
little  more  or  a  little  less!" 

Caracal  came  bustling  up,  shaking  hands  energetically, 
as  he  always  did. 

"Show  the  duke  your  little  gallery,"  he  said  in  a  low 
17 


18  FATA  MORGANA 

tone  to  Phil.  ' '  You  're  too  modest — you  must  n  't  hide 
your  light  under  a  bushel." 

"Pshaw!  he  wouldn't  appreciate  it,"  said  Phil. 

They  stood  before  the  Morgana  painting.  Helia, 
strongly  impressed  by  the  luxury  of  the  studio,  looked 
around  with  astonishment.  She  remembered  Phil's  be- 
ginnings in  his  attic  by  the  quays  of  the  Seine. 

The  duke  turned  toward  him :  ' '  Superb !  It  is  very 
beautiful !  Allow  me  to  congratulate  you,  Monsieur 
Phil!" 

Phil  bowed. 

Conrad  di  Tagliaferro,  Duke  of  Morgania,  was  a  grand 
seigneur,  who  left  his  duchy  to  take  care  of  itself,  and 
passed  half  his  time  in  his  Paris  mansion.  His  people 
believed  him  to  be  quite  taken  up  with  politics,  discussing 
mordicus  with  the  representatives  of  the  Great  Powers, 
and  securing  support  against  the  coming  storm.  For 
the  duchy  was  on  the  banks  of  the  Adriatic,  lower  than 
Montenegro,  and  backed  up  against  Albania,  where  the 
clouds  threatened.  The  duke,  meanwhile,  went  about 
with  Caracal,  his  professor  of  elegant  vice,  and  his  hand- 
some presence  was  a  part  of  Tout-Paris. 

"Your  picture  is  a  masterpiece,  Monsieur  Phil,"  the 
duke  went  on.  "It  would  be  impossible  to  interpret 
better  the  legend  of  my  ancestress,  Morgana.  It  will 
hang  well  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle,  above  the  ducal 
throne— I  see  it  from  here.  You  have  quite  caught  what 
I  wished,  and  I  am  grateful  to  you." 

The  great  painting  took  up  a  whole  side  of  the  studio, 
and  its  effect  was  superb  under  the  light,  which  fell  in 
floods.  It  was  a  decorative  work,  which,  from  the  first, 
impressed  the  beholder  by  its  look  of  strangeness. 


THE   FATA  MORGANA  19 

Phil  was  familiar  with  the  mirage  which  is  peculiar  to 
the  Adriatic  Sea,  and  which  is  known  as  the  Fata  Morgana. 

In  the  morning  oftenest,  but  sometimes  at  evening, 
you  suddenly  perceive  in  the  sky  images  of  various 
things— of  ruined  towers  and  castles,  which  crumble  and 
change  and  take  on  prodigious  shapes.  The  dwellers  of 
the  coast  call  the  phenomenon  the  Fata  Morgana;  their 
superstitious  ideas  lead  them  to  see  in  it  the  enchant- 
ments of  a  fairy  (fata) ,  whereas  it  is  simply  an  effect  of 
the  mirage  caused  by  the  heating  of  the  sea.  This  was 
the  moment  which  Phil  had  chosen  for  his  picture. 

The  lower  part  of  the  canvas  was  in  shadow,  but  the 
upper  part  was  resplendent  with  light;  and  towers 
seemed  to  rise  and  arches  hang  above  the  abyss,  while 
visions  appeared  between  the  clouds.  The  setting  sun 
lighted  up  with  its  dying  fires  the  moving  mists,  whereon 
rainbow  tints  were  playing.  At  the  horizon  the  sea  min- 
gled with  the  clouds.  Morgana  rose  from  the  waves 
which  broke  along  the  beach.  Strange  sea-flowers  clung 
to  her  hair  and  covered  her  shoulders.  In  the  back- 
ground, cliffs  fell  straight  down  to  the  sea ;  and  all  along 
the  shore  an  ecstatic  people  acclaimed  the  return  of  their 
lady,  the  Duchess  Morgana. 

Phil  had  put  all  his  talent  into  this  picture.  Months 
of  implacable  labor  were  in  it.  The  duke,  who  had  not 
yet  seen  the  finished  canvas,  seemed  delighted.  Phil  was 
paid  for  his  labors. 

The  Duke  of  Morgania  had  a  love  for  art  and  artists. 
He  chatted  in  a  friendly  way  with  Phil  of  the  numerous 
studies  which  such  a  picture  demands. 

"I  should  have  liked  to  be  a  painter,"  he  said,  smil- 
ingly. "I  am  infatuated  with  the  bohemian  life!" 


20  FATA  MORGANA 

"It  hasn't  been  all  amusement  to  me,"  replied  Phil. 
"Art  is  not  easy,  allez!" 

"It  's  about  the  same  in  everything ;  nothing  is  easy, ' ' 
Helia  observed. 

She  entered  into  the  conversation  timidly.  Accus- 
tomed as  she  had  been  from  childhood  to  brave  a  thou- 
sand eyes  in  the  circus  ring,  Helia  felt  herself  embar- 
rassed in  the  sumptuous  studio  where  she  found 
Phil,  friend  of  her  childhood  and  youth— Phil,  who  had 
been  so  fond  of  her  then,  and  who  doubtless  loved  her 
still.  She  would  know  soon, — when  they  were  alone, — 
if  only  by  the  way  in  which  he  would  take  her  hand. 

"It  is  the  same  in  everything.  You  are  right,  made- 
moiselle," the  duke  answered.  "Yours  is  an  art  also." 

Helia  blushed  with  pleasure. 

' '  Phil  will  be  proud  of  me, ' '  she  thought. 

"But  she  's  taking  it  seriously,  the  little  mounte- 
bank," Caracal  murmured  to  himself.  "She  is  as  big 
a  fool  as  Phil,  on  my  word ! ' ' 

"Mon  cher  ami,"  the  duke  said  to  Phil,  "Mile.  Helia 
has  a  singular  resemblance  to  Morgana.  For  we  have 
documents  concerning  the  appearance  of  Morgana— 
Sansovino's  statue  at  Ancona,  for  example,  the  Botticelli 
of  the  Louvre,  and  the  stained-glass  window  of  the 
throne-room  in  the  ducal  castle,  as  well  as  numberless 
pictures  scattered  through  the  cottages  of  Morgania. 
There  is  an  admitted  classic  type.  You  will  only  have 
to  finish  the  figure  of  my  ancestress  with  Mile.-  Helia, 
and  your  picture  will  be  perfect. ' ' 

"And  what  happiness  for  me!"  said  Helia.  "Phil 
—Monsieur  Phil  will  do  my  portrait!" 


1 


The  Great  Canvas 


THE  FATA  MORGANA  23 

But  Phil  interrupted  Helia  to  keep  the  duke,  who  was 
on  the  point  of  departing: 

' '  Wait  a  moment ;  Miss  Ethel  Rowrer  is  coming  to 
see  the  picture.  She  is  over  there  in  the  students'  atelier. 
I  '11  go  and  tell  her." 

Phil  went  out ;  doors  were  heard  opening  and  closing ; 
and  then  he  came  back  with  Miss  Rowrer,  whom  he  had 
found  just  quitting  her  work.  She  was  fastening  a 
bouquet  of  Parma  violets  at  her  waist,  and  was  ready 
to  come. 

Miss  Rowrer  entered. 

She  was  tall  and  pink  and  blonde.  She  had  distin- 
guished features,  with  a  wilful  forehead  and  solid  chin. 
Her  beauty  and  her  practice  of  outdoor  sports  gave  her 
a  self-confidence  which  was  superb,  while  the  prestige  of 
the  name  of  her  father— the  famous  Chicagoan— and  his 
colossal  fortune  were  as  nothing  when  she  looked  you  in 
the  face  with  her  clear  eyes,  lighted  up  with  intelligence. 
As  soon  as  she  entered  the  studio  there  seemed  to  be  no 
one  else  there. 

Miss  Rowrer  nodded  familiarly  to  Caracal  and  the 
duke,  habitues  of  the  Comtesse  de  Donjeon's  teas, 
where  she  had  made  their  acquaintance,  as  well  as  that 
of  Phil,  some  months  previously.  She  cast  a  discreet 
glance  at  Helia.  As  for  Phil,  whose  pupil  she  was 
and  whose  talent  she  admired,  she  treated  him  as  a 
friend. 

They  began  talking  immediately.  Miss  Rowrer  spoke 
of  her  brother  Will,  of  his  yacht,  still  in  the  dock  at 
Boston,  but  which  was  soon  to  sail  for  France;  of  his 
autumn  cruise  in  the  Mediterranean;  then,  changing 


24  FATA  MORGANA 

the  subject,  she  talked  of  art  and  literature,  lightly,  with- 
out pose. 

"How  can  any  one  find  time,"  thought  Helia,  "to 
learn  so  many  pretty  things!" 

"Is  that  your  Morgana  picture?"  Miss  Rowrer  asked 
Phil,  pointing  to  the  great  canvas.  "That  half-painted 
figure  will  doubtless  be  Morgana  herself— it  is  very 
beautiful.  But,"  she  added,  as  she  turned  to  the  duke, 
' '  explain  it  to  me  a  little,  will  you  ?  I  am  not  acquainted 
with  the  subject." 

' '  What,  Miss  Rowrer !  You  know  everything,  and  you 
don't  know  the  legend  of  Morgana!" 

' '  Only  by  name, ' '  said  Miss  Rowrer.  ' '  In  my  picture- 
books  there  used  to  be  Bluebeard  and  ogres  and  ugly 
wolves,  who  made  me  afraid — and  the  good  fairies  Melu- 
sine  and  Morgana,  who  delighted  me.  They  did  so  much 
good  with  their  magic  wands ! ' ' 

"Morgana  is  my  ancestress,"  said  the  duke.  "She  is 
my  good  genius.  There  is  not  a  cottage  in  Morgania 
where  her  picture  does  not  hang,  next  to  the  icons  of  the 
Virgin.  In  the  winter  evenings,  around  the  fire,  they 
recount  her  exploits  and  those  of  Rhodai's  and  Bertha. 
Children  grow  up  with  it  in  their  blood ;  they  no  more 
think  of  their  country  without  its  heroines  than  without 
its  woods  and  mountains." 

"And  what  particular  event  have  you  chosen  for  this 
picture?"  asked  Miss  Rowrer.  "Is  it  the  coming  of 
Morgana  ? ' ' 

"By  the  sea  she  departed,"  said  the  duke,  "and  she 
has  never  come  back.  Yet  she  will  come,  they  say." 

"You  laugh  at  it?" 


THE   FATA  MORGANA  25 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  the  duke.  "Such  things  seen 
in  the  light  of  Paris  appear  altogether  ridiculous;  but 
away  in  Morgania  there  are  thousands  of  good  people— 
or  thousands  of  foolish  people,  if  you  wish — "  the  duke 
corrected  himself,  in  terror  of  the  mocking  smile  of 
Caracal,  his  professor  of  skepticism— "thousands  of 
foolish  people  who  talk  of  nothing  else  and  await  her 
return. ' ' 

"But  when  did  she  go  away?"  asked  Miss  Rowrer. 

"Oh,  ah!— well— a  thousand  years  ago,"  answered  the 
duke. 

' '  A  thousand  years  ago ! ' '  exclaimed  Miss  Rowrer, 
amused  by  these  stories  of  fairy  duchesses  and  poor 
mountaineers  sitting  by  the  sea  and  watching  from 
father  to  son  for  Morgana.  "But  who  has  foretold  her 
return?"  she  asked. 

"An  old  sorceress  who  lives  like  an  owl  in  the  hollow 
of  a  rock." 

"Really!" 

"Truly  and  really!  People  come  to  consult  her  from 
every  quarter.  She  makes  her  fire  on  three  red  stones, 
observes  the  sky  and  the  stars,  traces  serpents  on  the 
sand— and  then  this  old  woman  foretells  the  future. 
Now,  according  to  her  prediction,  the  cycle  of  time  has 
swung  round  and  Morgana  is  coming,  bringing  in  her 
arms  the  fortune  of  Morgania.  Events,  we  must  ac- 
knowledge, seem  to  bear  out  the  sorceress:  the  country 
is  deeply  troubled;  I  shall  soon  be  obliged  to  go  back 
myself— and  you  can  imagine  whether  it  is  amusing  for 
me  ?  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  a  simple  citizen  of  Paris ! ' ' 

"Eh  bien,  monseigneur ! "  said  Miss  Rowrer,  "in  that 


26  FATA  MORGANA 

case,  abdicate,  abdicate.  But  first  tell  me,  I  beg  of  you, 
the  legend  of  Morgana." 

"It  does  not  date  from  yesterday,  as  I  have  told 
you,"  the  duke  went  on.  "The  duchy  was  already  in 
existence,  having  been  given  to  Hugh,  chief  of  the 
Franks,  by  the  Emperor  Theodosius;  but  it  was  only  in 
Morgana 's  time  that  it  came  to  a  consciousness  of  itself. 
Morgana  was  a  poor  sailor-girl,  according  to  some— a 
king's  daughter,  according  to  others.  Did  she  ever  really 
exist?  or  is  she  only  an  ideal  figure  created  by  a  people 
in  infancy,  more  inclined  to  poetry  than  to  reflection, 
and  personifying  in  her  all  its  great  heroines? 

"However  that  may  be,  the  year,  as  your  Edgar  Poe 
says,  'had  been  a  year  of  terrors.'  There  was  fighting 
along  the  frontiers.  The  duke,  selfish-hearted  and  weak, 
had  lost  two  of  his  provinces.  The  people  were  in 
despair.  Morgana  brought  hope  back  to  them.  Her 
piety  and  her  beauty  worked  miracles.  A  light,  it  is 
said,  followed  her.  She  took  up  arms  for  her  country 
and  worked  wonders.  The  hordes  of  the  enemy  thought 
her  invulnerable — they  had  set  a  price  on  her  head.  One 
day,  in  battle,  she  saved  Duke  Adhemar,  when  he  was  at 
the  point  of  being  massacred ;  she  leaped  forward,  with 
the  great  white-cross  standard  in  one  hand  and  her  battle- 
ax  in  the  other,  slashed  her  way  through  the  barbarians, 
and,  her  arms  red  with  blood,  brought  back  the  duke 
amid  the  acclamations  of  the  people.  Their  enthusiasm 
was  immense;  they  prayed  at  Morgana 's  feet.  'What 
passed  afterward?'  Had  the  duke  promised  marriage 
to  her,  as  some  pretend — and,  to  obtain  peace,  did  he  sell 
Morgana  to  the  enemy?  Our  chronicles  are  uncertain 


THE  FATA  MORGANA  27 

on  that  point.  But  Duke  Adhemar  compromised  himself 
by  some  ugly  deed  or  other— the  perjury  of  a  coward. 
One  evening  the  indignant  Morgana  came  down  to  the 
shore,  followed  by  a  whole  people,  who  demanded  her  for 
their  duchess  and  scattered  flowers  before  her.  But  she 
entered  her  bark  alone.  'Since  the  duke  has  sworn,' 
she  said,  'let  me  save  his  honor.  I  go.  May  my  sacrifice 
redeem  his  race!  And  remember— not  gold,  but  youth 
and  courage  are  a  people's  strength!'  Then  Morgana 
sailed  away  from  the  shore  and  disappeared  in  the  open 
sea,  while  the  crowd  still  prayed  for  her.  The  next  day 
a  strange  mirage  lighted  up  the  country,  and  the  people 
said:  'It  is  the  soul  of  Morgana,  virgin  and  martyr.' 
Then  the  people,  in  their  indignation,  drove  Duke  Ad- 
hemar from  the  throne.  They  raised  altars  to  her.  To 
Morgana  was  given  the  title  of  duchess;  she  became  the 
protectress  of  Morgania— and  of  my  house,  whose  honor 
she  had  saved." 

"Let  us  hope  she  will  come  back,"  said  Miss  Rowrer. 
"You  are  quite  right  to  believe  in  her!" 

"I- "began  the  duke. 

"Why,  yes,  monseigneur, "  continued  Miss  Rowrer, 
who  had  remarked  the  duke's  accent  of  conviction  toward 
the  end  of  his  story.  "Don't  deny  it— it  is  beautiful  to 
believe  in  something!  M.  Caracal  will  pardon  you  this 
time." 

"Willingly,  Miss  Rowrer,"  said  Caracal,  with  the 
pinching  of  the  lips  which  was  his  mode  of  smiling. 
"Willingly;  but  on  one  condition.  Get  Monsieur  Phil  to 
show  you  his  works." 

"Here    they    are,    it    seems    to    me,"    Ethel    said, 


28  FATA   MORGANA 

pointing  to  the  paintings  and  sketches  which  filled  the 
studio. 

"No  doubt,"  Caracal  insisted;  "but— all  his  handi- 
work is  not  here.  Come,  Monsieur  Phil,  show  us  the 
work  which  is  really  yours— what  you  paint  with  your 
soul !  Don 't  be  so  modest ;  bring  the  light  from  beneath 
the  bushel!" 

' '  Yes ;  show  us,  Phil, ' '  said  the  duke. 

' '  Monseigneur — "  Phil  began. 

Caracal  shot  a  triumphant  glance  at  Phil. 

"You  will  allow  me,  cher  ami?"— and  he  opened  the 
little  gallery  to  Miss  Rowrer  and  the  duke,  while  Helia, 
seated  in  the  shadow,  waited  impatiently  for  the  visitors 
to  leave. 

Gay  laughter  was  heard.  Miss  Ethel  and  the  duke 
came  back.  "Ah,  charming!  Couldn't  be  more  amus- 
ing," said  the  duke.  "A  regular  art-trap!  I  must  get 
one  myself,  to  catch  fools." 

All  left  the  studio  except  Phil,  and  Helia,  who  was 
to  pose  for  him.  They  were  already  on  the  stairs,  and 
Caracal,  exasperated,  went  with  them,  like  the  legendary 
devil  who  disappears  into  the  earth,  carrying  with  him, 
instead  of  a  soul,  his  cow  painting  under  his  arm.  Be- 
hind him,  in  place  of  the  classical  odor  of  brimstone, 
there  was  only  the  fragrance  of  the  Parma  violets  which 
Miss  Rowrer  let  fall  by  accident  as  she  went  away. 

The  noise  ceased  on  the  staircase — Phil  was  already 
seated  on  the  sofa  beside  Helia. 


CHAPTER  III 

REMEMBERING  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS 

THEY  looked  at  each  other  as  if  astonished  to  be 
once  again  together.  Helia  admired  Phil,  whom 
she  found  handsomer  and  stronger — more,  in- 
deed, of  a  man.  Phil  scanned  the  refined  features  of  He- 
lia :  she  seemed  even  more  beautiful  than  in  the  old  days. 

Seated  thus,  hand  in  hand,  eyes  gazing  into  eyes, 
everything  came  back  to  memory:  their  first  meeting  in 
the  little  provincial  town  where  Phil  was  studying,  and 
where  the  circus  in  which  Helia  appeared  had  been  set 
up;  their  simple,  childish  love,  the  pretty  romance  of 
their  youth. 

In  the  old  days  Phil  used  to  speak  to  her  with  the 
familiar  "thou";  here,  in  the  quiet  of  the  studio,  alone 
with  this  beautiful  young  girl,  it  seemed  too  familiar, 
almost  wanting  in  respect  for  her. 

"Perhaps  Phil  is  more  intimidated  than  myself," 
Helia  thought  in  her  surprise.  "He  has  not  even  kissed 
me.  But  whether  he  speaks  to  me  with  a  'thou'  or  a 
'you'  matters  little,  provided  he  loves  me  still!" 

"Now,  then,  Phil,"  she  asked,  between  her  smiles, 
"what  hast  thou— what  have  you  been  doing  all  this 
time?" 


30  FATA  MORGANA 

"Oh!"  answered  Phil,  "many  things!  And  you, 
Helia?" 

' '  Oh,  for  me  it  has  been  always  the  same  thing,  always 
just  as  it  was  before— do  you  remember?" 

Ah,  the  childish  doings  of  other  days !  How  happy 
Helia  was  to  take  shelter  in  their  sweet  memories ! 

"Do  you  remember,"  said  Phil,  "the  day  I  saw  you 
first?  You  know  it  was  at  the  Fete-Dieu  procession. 
How  pretty  you  were  as  the  little  Saint  John ! ' ' 

On  that  day  houses  are  decorated ;  the  walls  are  hung 
with  white  sheets,  on  which  are  pinned  flowers  and 
greenery,  and  the  procession  passes  between  these  blos- 
soming walls.  But  the  one  thing  in  the  procession  for 
Phil  had  been  the  little  Saint  John. 

It  was  Helia  who  took  the  role.  At  first  they  had 
chosen  the  daughter  of  a  rich  merchant;  but  fear  of 
drafts  and  a  possible  fall  of  rain — a  cold  is  caught  so 
quickly— led  them  to  change  at  the  last  moment ;  and  in 
haste  they  took  a  creature  of  less  importance,  whose 
colds  did  not  count. 

"I  remember,"  said  Helia,  "they  came  to  get  me  at 
the  circus.  I  happened  to  be  in  a  pink  maillot,  and  they 
put  the  sheepskin  on  my  back  and  the  wooden  cross  in 
my  hand— and  ten  francs  in  papa's  hand— and  so  I 
became  the  little  Saint  John. ' ' 

"And  what  a  delightful  Saint  John  you  were!"  said 
Phil.  ' '  I  became  a  lover  and  a  poet  on  the  spot ;  I  wrote 
verses — I  was  wild ! ' ' 

"And  you  got  wilder  still,"  said  Helia,  "when  you 
found  out  that,  instead  of  a  merchant's  daughter,  I  was 
the  famous  Helia — the  acrobatic  star  whom  the  posters 
pictured  on  her  trapeze,  amid  stars  and  suns ! ' ' 


The  Little  Saint  John 


REMEMBERING  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  33 

Helia,  in  her  turn,  had  seen  Phil  a  few  days  later, 
while  she  was  playing  Wolf  and  Sheep.  Sinking  back 
in  the  sofa-cushions  of  the  great  studio,  she  chatted  with 
Phil  of  that  momentous  event. 

"That  was  the  day  after  they  had  thrown  so  many 
oranges  to  me — do  you  remember,  Phil? — and  I  was 
playing  Wolf  in  the  square  with  the  neighbors'  children. 
You  remember  the  game  ?  One  of  the  players  is  the  wolf, 
another  is  the  shepherd,  the  others  are  the  sheep.  They 
stand  behind  the  shepherd  and  walk  around  singing : 

'  Promenons-nous  dans  les  bois 
Pendant  que  le  loup  n'y  est  pas ! ' 

('  Let 's  go  walking  through  the  woods, 
While  the  wolf  's  away ! ') 

And  then  the  wolf  jumps  out  and  tries  to  catch  a 
sheep." 

That  second  meeting  of  Phil  and  Helia  had  passed 
off  very  prettily.  Helia  was  a  regular  little  tomboy  at 
play.  Of  course  she  did  not  often  get  a  chance  to 
play,  and  she  found  it  pleasant  to  leap  and  laugh  with 
other  children;  and  Phil  was  there,  standing  around 
with  the  boys.  He  would  have  given  everything  in  the 
world  to  be  wolf  and  seize  Helia  and  devour  her  with 
kisses— if  he  had  dared. 

And  perhaps  he  might  have  dared,— lured  on  by  a 
smile  from  the  little  Saint  John, — but  some  one  (it  was 
Cemetery,  the  clown)  came  out  from  the  circus-tent,  and 
at  sight  of  him  sheep  and  shepherd  scattered.  He  called 


34  FATA  MORGANA 

harshly  to  Helia,  and  with  a  gesture  sent  her  into  the 
tent. 

The  little  girl  obeyed  without  a  word,  raising  her  el- 
bow as  she  passed  before  her  master,  as  if  to  ward  off  a 
blow.  The  last  thing  seen  by  Phil  was  the  appealing 
glance  of  Helia,  which  seemed  to  say  to  him,  "  You  see 
—and  yet  I  was  doing  no  harm— and  we  'd  have  had 
such  fun !  " 

That  was  their  second  meeting. 

The  next  day  Phil  prowled  around  the  circus-tent  with 
the  other  boys  and  tried  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  Helia 
through  the  holes  of  the  canvas,  or  from  beneath, 
stretched  out  flat  on  the  ground. 

All  the  day  long  the  little  girl  was  kept  rehearsing  her 
exercises.  Sometimes  it  was  the  trapeze,  or  again  the  car- 
pet. Cemetery  gave  her  his  directions  with  a  serious  air. 

"Allez!— firm  on  your  feet— smile,  smile — throw  your 
head  back — don't  move  your  feet !  Bend  back !  bend ! 
bend!  Fall  on  your  hands!  There— there— smile ! 
Tonnerre!  Won't  you  smile?" 

But  Phil  waited  in  vain ;  he  never  saw  her  play  again 
with  the  others. 

Soon  afterward  the  circus  went  away,  and  Phil,  when 
vacation-time  came,  returned  to  America.  He  took  with 
him  tender  remembrances,  seeing  often  the  last  touching 
glance  of  Helia  with  her  beautiful  sad  eyes.  Pity  min- 
gled with  his  tenderness. 

Phil  went  on  his  way  through  Paris  and  London  and 
across  the  ocean  to  New  York,  and  then  on  to  the  sunny 
South  and  his  old  ancestral  mansion  on  the  Chesapeake. 
But  nothing,  neither  terrapin-catching  nor  duck-shooting 


: 


Helia  and  her  "  Professor  " 


REMEMBERING  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS  37 

nor  horseback-riding  through  the  country,  could  efface 
his  childhood's  first  love,  which  only  grew  in  solitude. 
How  he  regretted  that  he  had  not  taken  part  in  the  game 
when  the  little  Helia  invited  him  with  a  smile— that  he 
had  not  kissed  her  through  her  brown  curls ! 

Phil  came  back  to  France  to  go  on  with  his  studies. 
Helia  was  already  a  grown  girl  when  he  saw  her  again. 
The  circus  was  being  advertised,  and  great  posters  with 
the  name  of  Helia  placarded  the  walls. 

With  what  impatience  Phil  awaited  her!  He  was  to 
see  her  again.  He  passed  hours  in  the  open  square 
where  the  circus  was  being  set  up  in  the  disorder  of 
wagons  and  poles  and  canvas,  peering  anxiously  into  the 
circus-wagons. 

The  circus  was  in  a  single  tent.  The  artistes  for 
changing  their  costumes  had  rude  dressing-rooms  amid 
the  confusion  of  circus  properties  underneath  the 
benches  on  which  the  public  sat. 

One  evening  Helia  had  finished  dressing  by  the  light 
of  a  candle  when  she  heard  a  noise  above  her  head.  She 
saw  the  bunting  beneath  the  benches  lifted,  and  a  little 
bunch  of  flowers  fell  on  her  shoulder.  She  nearly  cried 
out  with  surprise.  During  her  turn  they  often  threw 
oranges  and  flowers  to  her — that  was  commonplace ;  but 
these  flowers ! 

As  soon  as  she  came  into  the  ring  she  looked  at  the 
benches  above  her  dressing-room.  She  fancied  she  rec- 
ognized there  the  one  whom  she  had  seen  when  she  was 
playing  Wolf— how  long  ago! 

"Le  Roy  fait  battre  le  tambour 
Pour  appeler  ses  dames." 


38  FATA  MORGANA 

(Phil  took  his  banjo  from  the  wall  behind  the  sofa. 
In  a  low  voice  he  murmured  the  old  song,  which  he  had 
not  forgotten,  to  the  air  played  by  the  band  when  it 
announced  Helia's  entrance  into  the  ring: 

"Le  Roy  fait  battre  le  tambour 
Pour  appeler  ses  dames,  .  .  . 
Et  la  premiere  qu'il  a  vue 
Lui  a  ravi  son  ame." 

("  The  King  has  the  drum  beat 
To  call  out  his  ladies,  .  .  . 
And  the  first  one  he  sees 
Steals  away  his  soul.") 

All  the  memories  of  the  past  rose  up  in  Helia  at  the 
familiar  air.) 

At  that  time  she  was  living  inside  a  courtyard  where 
the  circus  people  put  up  their  wagons.  There  was  a 
stable  for  the  horses  and  an  inn  for  the  men.  Through 
the  great  gate  of  the  courtyard  the  circus  was  in  full 
sight,  out  in  the  public  square. 

One  evening  it  was  raining.  Helia  was  at  the  gate 
and,  caught  by  the  rain,  hesitated  to  go  on.  All  at  once 
Phil  came  up.  She  recognized  him,  and  both  were  so 
moved  that  they  said  only  the  simplest  things  to  each 
other. 

"Thanks  for  your  bouquet,"  said  Helia. 

"Mademoiselle,"  Phil  began. 

' ' I  remember  you  very  well, ' '  Helia  went  on ;  "I  knew 
you  a  long  time  ago.  Why  did  you  not  play  Wolf  with 
us?" 


REMEMBERING  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  39 

"Because  that  man  made  you  go  in/'  Phil  answered. 

"Ah,  yes!  true,"  said  Helia. 

Phil  feared  she  would  hear  the  beating  of  his  heart. 
He  tried  to  put  an  end  to  their  embarrassment,  so  he 
chattered  about  the  rain  and  the  bad  weather. 

"Mademoiselle,  you  must  forgive  me— I  have  no  um- 
brella !"  he  said. 

"That  's  no  matter,"  said  Helia.  "Accompany  me 
to  the  circus.  Wait  a  bit— here  's  what  we  want!" 

On  the  wall  beside  them  there  hung  a  circus-poster. 
She  took  it,  lifted  it  with  one  hand  above  her  head,  while 
Phil  held  the  other  end;  and  the  two  under  one  shelter 
crossed  the  square. 

"Shall  I  see  you  again,  mademoiselle?"  Phil  asked, 
when  they  had  reached  the  circus. 

"Surely— in  the  courtyard  yonder  by  the  wagons— or 
here  in  the  evening." 

Phil  left  her  without  speaking  further.  Soon,  through 
the  canvas,  he  heard  the  air  that  announced  her  turn : 

"  Marquis,  t'es  bien  plus  heureux  que  moi 

D'avoir  f emme  si  belle ; 

Si  tu  voulais  me  1'accorder 

Je  me  chargerai  d'elle  !  " 

("  Marquis,  you  're  happier  than  I 

Because  your  wife  's  so  pretty ; 
If  you  '11  give  her  up  to  me, 
Willingly  '11  take  her !  ") 

The  days  that  followed  were  for  Helia  the  sunny  cor- 
ner of  her  sad  childhood.  When  she  saw  Phil  she  was 
happy— and  she  saw  him  every  day !  The  very  difficulty 
of  meeting  added  charm  to  the  adventure. 


40  FATA  MORGANA 

They  saw  each  other  in  the  courtyard  of  the  inn. 

Helia  had  the  care  of  many  things.  A  baby — Soeurette 
(Little  Sister),  held  on  to  her  skirts,  and  Helia  gave  a 
mother's  care  to  the  child.  She  busied  herself  also  with 
the  linen  drying  on  the  clothes-lines ;  she  scattered  grain 
before  the  chickens  which  were  tied  by  their  legs;  she 
sewed  at  her  bodices  or  at  her  little  performance-slip- 
pers; or  else  she  would  be  coming  back  from  market 
with  a  great  loaf  of  bread  under  her  arm  and  provisions 
in  her  basket.  Always  she  was  charming.  Her  least 
movement  was  full  of  grace. 

When  Phil  could  not  speak  with  Helia  he  would  press 
her  hand  as  he  passed.  Then  he  would  watch  her  from 
afar.  Unconsciously  they  fell  greatly  in  love  with  each 
other — he  because  he  found  her  so  pathetic,  she  because 
he  was  so  timid  and  so  handsome.  From  a  few  words 
picked  up  here  and  there,  and  from  a  talk  with  the  clown 
at  a  cafe,  Phil  had  come  to  know  something  of  Helia 's 
story — for  she  never  spoke  of  it  herself,  through  pride. 
Or  was  it  a  woman's  shame  in  her  desire  to  show  to  the 
one  she  loved  only  what  was  fair  ?  Yet  she  had  nothing 
to  conceal, — pretty,  sweet,  valiant  Helia! 

Her  story? 

Helia  was  her  circus  name.  Her  real  name  Phil  did 
not  learn.  She  was  not  the  daughter  of  Cemetery  the 
clown,  although  she  called  herself  so;  she  was  only  his 
trained  pupil. 

Her  father  was  a  gentleman  of  Aries  who  became  a 
widower  with  two  daughters  on  his  hands,— Helia  and 
Sceurette, — one  much  older  than  the  other.  He  fell  in 
love  with  a  circus-rider,  and  a  terrible  life  began  for 


REMEMBERING  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  41 

him,  with  tours  across  Europe,  and  marriage  with  the 
woman,  who  ruled  him  with  a  rod  of  iron.  The  little 
daughters  went  with  him,  for  he  had  no  family  other 
than  relatives  far  removed.  Then  ruin  came.  A  circus 
whose  director  and  backer  he  had  become,  and  into  which 
he  had  put  all  his  money,  failed.  He  died,  abandoned 
by  every  one,  and  leaving  his  two  little  girls  to  the  care 
of  Cemetery,  who  had  been  his  circus-manager.  Ceme- 
tery, harsh  and  honest,  adopted  the  children  and  deter- 
mined to  make  artistes  of  them.  He  at  once  began  the 
training  of  the  elder,  and  Helia  grew  up  under  him  for 
master.  "You  shall  do  it  or  die!"  Cemetery  used  to 
say  when  teaching  her  to  perform.  To  those  who  rep- 
resented to  him  that  the  profession  was  already  encum- 
bered, he  answered :  ' '  There  is  always  room  on  top ! 
Beauty  is  well— talent  is  better.  To  work!" 

Such  was  the  story  of  Helia. 

When  Phil  asked  her  about  it,  Helia  did  not  answer, 
lout  only  smiled  faintly. 

But  Phil  knew  that  she  was  unhappy,  and  his  love 
for  her  went  on  growing.  He  dreamed  a  thousand  chiv- 
alrous schemes— each  madder  than  the  one  before.  He 
felt  within  him  the  passion  and  daring  resolution  of  the 
Longuevilles,  his  ancestors.  He  had  also  inherited  their 
zeal  for  virtue.  He  would  tear  Helia  away  from  her 
rough  life.  He  would  educate  her— he  would  make  her 
fit  to  be  his  companion.  He  explained  his  ideas  to  Helia. 
At  first  they  amused  her,  but  when  she  saw  how  sincere 
he  was,  she  ended  by  believing  them. 

Helia  went  out  rarely — scarcely  more  than  from  the 
inn  to  the  circus.  She  would  have  liked  to  meet  Phil 


42  FATA  MORGANA 

oftener.  When  evening  came,  in  her  dressing-room 
under  the  benches,  she  donned  her  costume  quickly  and 
received  her  friend.  It  was  easy  for  him  to  enter 
without  being  remarked.  On  the  outside  there  were 
wagons  which  left  only  a  narrow  passage.  It  was  where 
the  canvas  of  the  circus-tent  joined ;  he  had  only  to  pull 
it  aside  to  enter.  Then  he  was  at  once  in  the  dressing- 
room  inclosed  by  boards  and  fragments  of  carpets  worn 
out  by  generations  of  tumblers. 

Phil  would  sit  on  a  trunk  while  Helia  combed  her 
beautiful  hair  in  front  of  a  broken  mirror.  It  never 
came  to  their  minds  that  there  could  be  anything  wrong 
in  what  they  were  doing.  They  had  long  talks.  Helia 
spoke  of  her  profession  and  described  her  exercises. 

"I  am  going  to  do  the  high  leap.  I  spring  and  catch 
the  bar — I  get  my  balance,  standing  on  my  hands — and 
then  I  go  off  with  a  somersault!  The  high  leap,  Phil, 
you  could  learn  in  a  month — you  who  are  afraid  of 
nothing ! ' ' 

Phil  would  listen,  and  then  interrupt  her  gently  and 
speak  of  all  sorts  of  things,  opening  new  horizons  before 
her;  and  Helia  was  happy  and  glad  to  learn. 

"What  beautiful  arms!"  said  Phil  one  evening,  as  she 
was  soaping  them  in  a  basin  of  cold  water. 

"And  I  take  care  of  them!"  answered  Helia,  " songe 
done,  Phil!  (They  were  already  using  the  familiar 
French  "thou"  to  each  other.)  Just  think;  every  even- 
ing I  owe  my  life  to  these  arms !  When  I  do  the  flying 
trapeze  they  must  n't  miss  their  hold.  I  should  be 
crushed  on  the  benches,— think  of  it!— and  I  have  to 
smile  all  the  same." 


Phil  courting  Helia  in  the  Yard 


REMEMBERING  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  45 

As  she  dried  her  arms,  Phil  raised  his  eyes  and  saw, 
near  the  shoulder,  a  brown  stain  on  the  white  skin. 

"That  's  nothing,"  said  Helia;  "I  knocked  against 
a  post." 

Phil  looked  at  her  closely. 

"You've  been  crying  again  to-day!  But  I— I 'm 
not  afraid  of  Cemetery, ' '  he  went  on.  "I  '11  go  for  him 
to-morrow  and  punch  his  face.  I  won 't  have  him  touch- 
ing you  any  more.  First  of  all,  he  has  n't  the  right !  and 
I  '11  forbid  him." 

But  Helia  shook  her  head:  "No!"  She  added:  "I  '11 
attend  to  that !  I  belong  to  you  now — not  to  him ! 
There  he  comes,"  she  said  suddenly.  "Go  away— and 
not  a  word,  whatever  happens!" 

Above  the  noise  of  the  band  and  of  the  public,  Helia 
had  heard  Cemetery's  voice.  Phil  had  just  time  to  get 
away. 

"Are  you  going  to  come  when  you  are  called?"  the 
man  said. 

At  a  glance,  from  Helia 's  emotion,  from  certain  noises 
he  had  heard,  he  guessed  the  truth.  But  he  was  far 
from  thinking  of  Phil.  He  suspected  that  some  circus 
man  was  paying  court  to  her. 

Phil,  from  the  outside,  heard  this  dialogue. 

"You  were  not  alone?" 

"No!" 

"There  was  a  man  here?" 

Helia  did  not  answer. 

"Wait  a  bit,"  said  Cemetery.    "I  '11  teach  you— 

"Don't  touch  me— I  forbid  you!" 

Phil  looked  through  a  rent  in  the  canvas. 

3 


46  FATA  MORGANA 

Helia  stood  transfigured,  superb  with  energy.  She 
was  no  longer  a  child  driven  by  cuffs  and  blows;  she 
was  the  young  woman  awakened  by  love,  conscious  of 
her  rights  and  her  duties.  Phil's  soul  was  in  her.  Helia 
spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and  her  attitude  was  so  calm  that 
the  man  stopped  in  amazement. 

"Hein!  what  is  it?"  he  stammered. 

"Leave  this  room!"  said  Helia,  "or  I  will  have  the 
police  arrest  you.  You  have  no  right  over  me !  From 
to-day  you  shall  keep  your  hands  off  me!  Leave  the 
room,"  she  repeated. 

As  if  her  gesture  had  the  power  of  a  charm,  the  man 
went  out,  dumb  with  surprise  and  raising  his  elbow  as 
if  to  protect  himself. 

Phil  was  filled  with  enthusiasm  at  the  sight  of  Helia 's 
self-deliverance.  His  counsels  had  fallen  on  good 
ground.  He  had  awakened  in  Helia  a  spirit  of  indepen- 
dence, and  this  made  him  feel  an  increase  of  responsi- 
bility. 

At  midnight,  while  the  artistes  were  supping  at  the 
inn,  Phil  saw  Helia  in  the  shadow  of  the  wagons.  It 
was  there  that  he  met  her  henceforth,  for  after  this  he 
went  no  more  to  the  dressing-room.  Their  conversations 
took  place  in  the  peace  of  night;  they  said  a  thousand 
things  to  each  other,  talking,  like  children,  of  whatever 
passed  through  their  heads,  drifting  with  the  current 
which  bore  both  onward. 

"I  don't  like  the  career  they  have  chosen  for  me," 
said  Phil!  "they  want  me  to  be  a  diplomat.  Later  on 
I  wish  to  be  an  artist— a  painter  or  sculptor;  a  painter, 
I  think.  My  guardian  will  never  be  willing.  But  never 


REMEMBERING  THE   GOLDEN  DAYS  47 

mind !  I  will  go  to  Paris — I  will  make  my  way  by 
myself!" 

"Who  knows  if  I  shall  ever  see  you  again!"  said 
Helia.  "What  will  become  of  me?" 

"Helia,  you  shall  come  to  me  as  soon  as  I  have  earned 
money. ' ' 

' '  Paris, ' '  said  Helia,  dreamily.  ' '  You  will  be  all  alone 
there  when  you  arrive.  Ah !  if  I  only  knew  some  one ! 
At  any  rate,  I  will  give  you  the  address  of  a  hotel  for 
artistes  where  I  have  been  myself  with  Cemetery,  and  a 
letter  for  Suzanne,  whom  I  knew  at  school.  Suzanne 
is  an  actress.  We  write  to  each  other  sometimes." 

Ah,  what  adieus  were  theirs  the  evening  before  the 
separation!  How  Helia  trembled  when  Phil  kissed  her 
— and  what  promises  he  made  her! 

Sinking  back  in  the  sofa-cushions,  Helia  and  Phil  stared 
vaguely  before  them  at  the  Morgana  picture.  The  per- 
fume of  Miss  Rowrer's  violets  reached  them,  light  and 
subtle;  and  the  minutes  passed  in  silence.  Then  Phil 
sang  in  an  undertone : 

"  Adieu,  ma  mie,  adieu,  mon  coeur, 

Adieu,  mon  espe"rance !  .   .  . 

Puisque  il  me  faut  servir  le  roi, 

Se'parons-nous  d'ensemble." 

•     ("Farewell,  my  love,  farewell,  my  heart, 

Farewell,  all  my  hope  !  .  .  . 
And  since  I  must  serve  my  king, 

We  must  separate  from  each  other!") 

He  put  aside  the  banjo  and  began  talking  with  Helia, 
asking  questions  about  her  present  life. 


48  FATA   MORGANA 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  Paris,  Helia?  A  short 
time  only?" 

Helia,  who  was  astonished,  was  on  the  point  of  re- 
plying: "Why,  I  wrote  you."  She  remained  silent,  how- 
ever. The  sumptuous  studio — the  visits  of  monsei- 
gneurs  and  beautiful  young  ladies— how  different  it  was 
from  the  Phil  of  other  days,  the  Phil  of  the  circus,  the 
student  who  had  been  devoted  to  her  later  on  in  Paris ! 
Why  not  a  word  of  their  life  then,  of  their  idyl  of  the 
Louvre  roof-garden  ?  etc.  ...  He  did  not  even  speak  of 
all  that ;  his  remembrance  seemed  to  be  at  an  end.  This, 
then,  was  all  he  found  to  say  to  her  after  more  than  a 
year  of  separation— he  who  could  not  live  without  her, 
who  had  said  it  a  hundred  times. 

"Where  are  you  living?"  asked  Phil.  "At  the  Hotel 
des  Artistes,  where  I  went  when  I  came  to  Paris?  I 
left  it  on  the  advice  of  Suzanne,  your  great  actress," 
Phil  went  on,  smilingly. 

"Ah,  Phil!  I  thought  her  a  great  actress,"  said 
Helia.  "She  was  the  only  person  I  knew  in  Paris.  Oh, 
if  I  could  have  been  more  useful  to  you,  I  would  have 
been  !  No, ' '  she  began  again,  quickly,  ' '  I  am  not  living 
there;  but  I  keep  Cemetery  there." 

' '  Cemetery ! ' '  replied  Phil. 

"The  poor  fellow  has  grown  old— he  is  out  of  work; 
I  pay  for  his  room  until  he  can  find  an  engagement. ' ' 

"What,  Cemetery,  that  brute?" 

"He  made  me  an  artiste !"  Helia  replied,  bravely. 

"And  your  little  sister?"  continued  Phil,— "Sosu- 
rette,  you  called  her — what  has  become  of  her  ?  Do  you 
keep  her  with  you?" 


REMEMBERING  THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  49 

"Yes,"  said  Helia.  "My  father's  family  claimed  her, 
but  it  was  a  little  late,  was  it  not?  I  have  kept  her, 
thanks  to  several  friends — M.  Socrate,  the  poet,  among 
the  rest." 

"Socrate!"  said  Phil.  "I  know  a  person  of  that 
name.  It  can't  be  the  same — mine  is  a  painter." 

"So  is  mine." 

' '  lie  is  a  sculptor  also, ' '  added  Phil. 

"It  must  be  the  same  man,"  said  Helia. 

' '  Impossible ! ' '  thought  Phil.  ' '  Socrate  a  friend  of 
Helia!  How  can  they  have  met?" 

Phil  thought  of  the  life  of  Helia  in  circuses  and 
music-halls — the  coarse  environment  where  art  touches 
elbows  with  shamelessness.  "What  influences  have  been 
around  her,"  he  thought  in  sadness,  "during  all  this 
time  in  which  I  have  not  seen  her?" 

"Socrate  does  many  kind  little  things  for  me,"  Helia 
went  on.  "He  posts  my  letters  and  makes  himself 
useful.  He  's  a  man  who  will  be  celebrated  some  day; 
oh,  you  will  see ! ' ' 

So  spoke  Helia,  in  the  spirit  of  loyalty.  In  reality 
she  cared  little  enough  for  Socrate;  but  it  pleased  her 
to  let  Phil  think  that  she  cared  for  him.  So  much  the 
worse  if  Phil  should  be  vexed !  Had  he  been  afraid  to 
give  pain  ?  Since  she  has  been  in  the  studio  he  has  not 
once  kissed  her ! 

Helia  rose  to  go  away. 

"Then  it  's  for  to-morrow,  Phil?" 

Phil  begged  her  to  stay. 

"No;  I  will  come  back,"  said  Helia,  "  and  we  '11  pose 
to-morrow.  I  have  so  many  things  to  do  to-day — my 


50  FATA  MORGANA 

costumer,  my  director,  a  new  apparatus  to  try — I  must 
hurry." 

"Phil  has  forgotten  me,"  said  Helia  to  herself.  "It 
had  to  come — I  am  nothing  to  him  now!" 

As  she  passed  out  of  the  door  she  was  aware  of  the 
perfume  of  the  violets  which  Miss  Rowrer  had  let  fall. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WHEN  PHIL  CAME  TO  PARIS 

AS  Helia  felt,  Phil  was,  indeed,  no  longer  the  same. 

/%  This  was  no  more  the  Phil  who  had  loved  her  in 
-£^-  the  old  days. 

When  the  Phil  who  did  not  go  into  " society,"  and 
knew  neither  duke  nor  Miss  Rowrer, — when  that  Phil 
came  to  Paris,  after  parting  from  Helia  in  the  court- 
yard near  the  circus,  he  hastened  to  the  Hotel  des  Ar- 
tistes, of  which  Helia  had  told  him,  treasuring  in  his 
pocket  her  letter  that  recommended  him  to  Suzanne. 
Evening  was  falling,  the  street  was  dark,  the  house 
somber.  Maillots  were  drying  at  windows.  An  invisible 
musical  clown  was  picking  out  on  his  bottles  lugubrious 
tunes.  But  Phil  thought  of  Helia,  and  was  gay. 

That  night  he  slept  little.  He  was  in  a  hurry  for  the 
morning,  in  order  that  he  might  carry  Helia 's  letter 
to  Mile.  Suzanne.  He  flung  his  window  wide,  and  heard 
Paris  murmuring  in  the  dark. 

"Your  name  and  profession,"  said  the  landlady 
next  morning,  as  he  came  down.  Phil  signed  the  regis- 
ter, writing  underneath : 

"Artist-painter." 

51 


52  FATA  MORGANA 

" Artist-painter,"  said  the  landlady.  "I  should  have 
liked  that  trade." 

"It  's  not  a  bad  one,"  Phil  said. 

"But  very  difficult,"  replied  the  landlady.  "We 
lately  had  a  painter  here — a  very  famous  one ;  he  painted 
with  his  feet.  He  used  to  tell  me  the  hardest  thing 
about  it  is  to  balance  yourself  on  your  hands  while  you 
are  painting !  Ah,  monsieur,  the  public  no  longer  appre- 
ciates the  fine  arts.  If  I  were  you,  at  your  age,  I  'd 
learn  to  walk  on  a  ball." 

"I  '11  tell  that  to  Mile.  Suzanne,"  Phil  said  to  himself. 
"She  must  be  a  real  artiste— Mile.  Suzanne.  And  then 
we  '11  talk  about  Helia ! ' ' 

He  thought  he  should  never  get  to  Mile.  Suzanne,  the 
city  was  so  enormous.  He  was  meditating  what  he 
should  say  to  her,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  cab  began 
jolting  over  an  atrocious  stretch  of  pavement.  Phil 
stuck  his  head  through  the  window  just  as  the  cab  drew 
up  at  the  end  of  a  blind  alley. 

"Say,  cocker,"  said  Phil,  "I  think  you  've  made  a 
mistake. ' ' 

"Penses-tu,  bebe!"  murmured  the  cabman. 

"What  do  you  say?" 

"I  say  it  's  all  right." 

Phil  got  out.  There  were  heads  at  all  the  windows; 
the  cab  had  made  a  stir  in  the  little  street. 

' '  Perhaps  she  saw  me  come, ' '  thought  Phil,  as  he  went 
into  the  house. 

It  was  the  right  address,  but  Mile.  Suzanne  was  not 
at  home. 

"You  '11  find  Mile.  Suzanne  in  the  Boulevard  de  Vau- 


Phil  arrives  at  the  Hotel 


WHEN  PHIL  CAME  TO  PARIS  55 

girard,  Number  13  bis.  You  go  this  way,  turn  to  the 
right,  then  to  the  left ;  there  's  a  door  with  plaster  in 
front  of  it.  Then  ask  for  Mile.  Suzanne." 

Phil  paid  the  cabman  and  set  off  on  foot.  He  walked 
to  the  right,  then  to  the  left,  and  found  himself  in  the 
Boulevard  de  Vaugirard,  at  that  time  of  day  deserted. 
Turning  again  to  the  left,  he  saw  a  heap  of  plaster  with 
a  door  behind  it.  Phil  knocked  timidly. 

"Entrez!"  cried  a  voice  of  thunder. 

Phil  had  just  time  to  pull  down  his  cuffs.  There 
was  no  time  to  push  up  his  cravat.  "Come  in !"— said  in 
such  a  tone  allowed  of  no  delay. 

He  entered.  It  was  an  astonishing  place,  heaped  up 
with  mud,  a  chaos  of  clay  and  plaster.  There  were 
buckets  filled  with  dirty  water,  sprinklers,  hammers, 
pieces  of  old  iron. 

' '  Where  am  I  ? "  thought  Phil.  ' '  This  must  be  a  school 
for  sculpture  done  with  the  feet !  Have  I  made  a  mis- 
take?" 

"Why  don't  you  come  in?"  roared  the  voice.  "This 
side !  Don 't  upset  my  statue !  Look  out  for  my  '  Fra- 
ternity'!  Troun  de  Diou!  don't  tread  on  my  potatoes!" 

Phil  passed  over  all  obstacles  and  came  into  the  pres- 
ence of  the  giant  of  the  place.  He  was  a  short,  thick-set 
creature,  whose  gaping  shirt  showed  a  breast  as  hairy 
as  a  monkey's  back.  With  his  fingers  he  was  kneading 
clay,  and  he  raised  furious  eyes  to  Phil.  Behind  him  a 
little  monsieur  lay  stretched  on  a  lounge,  playing  with 
his  monocle ;  but  where  was  Suzanne  ? 

"Monsieur— excuse  me!  I  have  made  a  mistake!" 
Phil  stammered. 


56  FATA  MORGANA 

"No  harm  done!"  said  the  hairy  one,  mollified  by 
Phil's  correct  dress  and  high  standing  collar;  and  he 
added:  "At  your  service,  monsieur!" 

Phil  showed  his  letter.  "I  thought  I  should  find  here 
Mile.  Suzanne,  an  actress,"  he  said. 

' '  Suzanne !  It  's  me ! "  cried  a  gay  voice  from  the 
ceiling. 

Phil  looked  up  in  the  air.  A  charming  blonde  with 
bare  arms  and  feet,  in  a  white  waist  and  black  petticoat, 
was  seated  on  top  of  a  scaffolding,  looking  at  Phil  with 
laughing  eyes. 

"Mile.  Suzanne,  my  model !"  said  the  man. 

"Let  's  have  the  letter!"  Suzanne  cried. 

' '  Catch ! ' '  said  the  sculptor,  tossing  up  to  her  the 
envelop  weighted  with  a  piece  of  clay. 

"Well,  I  'm  going!"  said  the  little  monsieur  with  the 
monocle. 

"Wait!  don't  go!"  Suzanne  cried,  with  her  letter  in 
her  hand.  "Let  's  be  correct.  Messieurs,  I  present  to 
you  Monsieur  Phil,  a  young  Englishman — 

"American,"  rectified  Phil. 

"A  friend  of  one  of  my  friends— the  famous  Helia— 
it  's  too  long  to  explain.  M.  Caracal,  who  writes  in  the 
— the — what-do-you-call-it — well,  no  matter — And  Pou- 
faille,  sculptor,  pupil  of  Boudin.  There,  the  introduc- 
tions are  made ! ' ' 

"Monsieur-" 

"Monsieur — " 

"Monsieur — " 

There  were  three  bows. 

"Ah!  so  you  are  an  American  and  a  painter,"  Caracal 


WHEN  PHIL  CAME  TO  PARIS  57 

said  to  Phil.  "Tiens!  tiens!  tiensl  I  thought  there 
were  only  pork-packers  in  that  country.  Salut,  mes- 
sieurs!" 

Before  Phil  could  answer  a  word,  Caracal  had  strad- 
dled over  the  rough  model  of  "Fraternity,"  jumped 
across  the  potatoes,  and  gone  out,  slamming  the  door 
behind  him. 

"He  's -not  polite — M.  Caracal,"  Suzanne  remarked; 
"but  you  English  don't  care!" 

' '  I  am  an  American ! ' ' 

"Well,  then,  M.  1'Americain,  what  are  you  waiting 
for  ?  Give  me  your  hand  and  help  me  down ! ' ' 

But  she  was  on  the  ground  before  Phil  could  assist 
her. 

"Oh,  my  good  Helia!"  said  Suzanne.  "How  glad  I 
am  she  is  so  happy!" 

"The  friends  of  our  friends  are  our  friends,"  bawled 
Poufaille,  as  he  patted  Phil  on  the  shoulder  with  his 
great  hairy  hand.  "Sit  down,  Monsieur  Phil." 

Phil  sat  down,  much  encouraged  by  their  welcome. 

Suzanne  went  and  came  lightly,  moving  things  about. 
She  took  a  cigarette,  lighted  it,  and  threw  it  away.  He 
saw  her  approach  the  stove  and  raise  the  cover  of  the  pot. 
A  bubbling  noise  came  from  it. 

"Make  yourself  at  home,"  said  Poufaille.  Phil  prof- 
ited by  the  permission  to  look  around  him.  A  hunk  of 
bread  was  lying  on  the  model 's  table.  In  an  empty  plate 
a  fork  fraternized  with  a  pipe.  The  shelves  on  the  wall 
were  encumbered  with  rude  canvases  and  rough  models. 
The  sculptor  was  smoothing  down  his  clay.  The  scene 
did  not  attract  the  young  American. 


58  FATA  MORGANA 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  preparing  to  retire,  "I  will 
pay  you  a  visit  at  the  Impasse  de  Vaugirard." 

"So  as  not  to  find  me?  You  '11  be  taking  something 
for  your  cold,  sure ! ' ' 

"But,  mademoiselle,  I— I  haven't  a  cold!" 

There  was  an  explosion  of  laughter.  Suzanne  choked 
and  Poufaille  bellowed  with  joy. 

"Ah  ga,"  Suzanne  cackled.  "Hou!  hou!  but — hou, 
hou!  Helia  taught  you  nothing,  then?" 

Phil  stood  amazed,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

"He  's  nice,  all  the  same,  I'Angliche — we  can't  let 
him  go  away  alone — something  would  happen  to  him!" 
said  Suzanne.  "Put  down  your  hat,"  she  added,  "and 
lunch  with  us!" 

"Of  course,  of  course!"  shouted  Poufaille. 

"Now  be  polite,  Monsieur  Phil,"  Suzanne  went  on: 
"sit  there  and  act  as  if  you  were  in  society.  Help  me  peel 
my  potatoes ! ' ' 

"Certainly!"  Phil  answered. 

And  so  it  was  that  Phil,  seated  on  a  block  of  plaster, 
was  initiated  by  Suzanne  into  the  belles  manieres  Pari- 
siennes. 

"You  must  take  off  only  the  skins  of  the  potatoes,  like 
this ! ' '  she  said,  while  posting  him  in  the  picturesque 
slang  of  the  quarter. 

"And  to  take  something  for  your  cold  when  you 
haven't  a  cold?"  Phil  asked. 

"That  means  to  be  caught,"  Suzanne  answered. 
"Dame!  in  Paris  wit  runs  the  streets!" 

"Then  this  morning,"  said  Phil,  "this  morning  when 
a  lady  advised  me  to  give  up  art  and  learn  to  walk  on  a 
ball — it  was  to  take  something  for  my  cold,  was  it?" 


"Hammering  Hit-  c-lay  wifli  a  terrific  blow  of  his  list" 


WHEN  PHIL  CAME   TO   PARIS  61 

' '  For  sure ! ' '  replied  Suzanne. 

A  noise  started  them.  It  was  Poufaille  working  him- 
self up  to  a  fit  of  anger.  "Troun  de  Diou!  She  was 
right,  that  lady  of  yours ! "  he  cried,  hammering  the  clay 
with  a  terrific  blow  of  his  fist. 

"Hello!"  Phil  said  in  a  fright;  "is  he  going  crazy?" 

The  sculptor's  eyes  were  out  of  his  head.  With  for- 
midable blows  he  was  flattening  the  bust,  shouting  rin- 
forzando:  "Right  a  hundred  times  over— a  thousand 
times,  a  million  times!" 

"What  's  the  matter,  M.  Poufaille?"  asked  Phil, 
rising. 

"What  's  the  matter?  To  think  that  those  pigs  of 
the  jury  refused  my  statue  of  'Fraternity'  for  the 
Salon!  You  understand  my  indignation,"  said  Pou- 
faille, taking  Phil  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  "Do  you 
understand?  Hein!  do  you  understand?" 

"I — I — I — understand  your  indignation — I — I  share 
it,"  Phil  answered  between  the  shakes. 

"It  's  enough  to  set  one  crazy ! ' '  shouted  Poufaille ; 
"but— sacre  mille  tonnerres!—Phi\,  take  off  your  col- 
lar; the  sight  of  you  with  that  instrument  of  torture 
chokes  me ! ' ' 

"Well,  if  that  's  all  that  's  needed  to  calm  you!"  Phil 
answered,  and  with  a  turn  of  the  hand  he  pulled  off 
cravat  and  collar. 

"J.  la  bonne  heure!    I  breathe!"  said  Poufaille. 

"Mon  petit  Poufaille,  where  's  the  salt?"  Suzanne 
asked,  without  paying  the  slightest  heed  to  the  sculptor's 
rage. 

"There,"  answered  Poufaille,  "in  the  tobacco-jar." 


62  FATA   MORGANA 

"And  now,  to  dinner!"  Suzanne  called.  "Here  's 
pig's  rump  ragout!" 

"To  dinner!"  shouted  Poufaille. 

"To  dinner!"  repeated  Phil. 

During  the  meal  Phil,  who  had  had  a  French  lesson 
from  Suzanne,  tried  to  give  her  a  lesson  in  geography. 
He  spoke  of  America.  But  Suzanne  declared  that  all 
those  names  hurt  her  head.  And  besides,  she  did  n  't 
believe  a  word  of  it. 

"Let  's  talk  of  love  instead,"  she  said.  "Are  you 
greatly  in  love  with  my  friend  Helia?" 

Phil  blushed. 

"She  is  so  pretty,"  Suzanne  continued;  "and 
she  's  not  been  spoiled,  I  can  tell  you !  All  the  more 
merit  in  her  to  be  good— she  's  worth  more  than  all  of 
us  together !— not  to  speak  of  her  being  pretty- 
pretty  !  That  does  n 't  hurt  anything,  does  it,  Monsieur 
Phil?" 

Phil  smiled. 

"Oh,  if  I  were  a  man!"  Suzanne  declared,  enthusias- 
tically, "I  'd  make  a  fool  of  myself  for  Helia!  Tell  me 
all  about  her,"  she  went  on.  "Love-stories  are  so 
amusing ! ' ' 

Phil  told  about  the  little  Saint  John,  the  lamb,  the 
game  of  Wolf,  the  poster-umbrella,  the  dressing-room 
under  the  benches,  and  his  last  interview  with  Helia, 
when  she  had  given  him  the  address  of  the  Hotel  des 
Artistes  and  his  letter  of  introduction. 

Suzanne  drank  in  his  words,  turn  b'y  turn  moved  to 
tenderness  or  laughter. 

"Oh,  it  does  me  good  to  hear  it!    There  's  love  for 


WHEN  PHIL  CAME   TO   PARIS  63 

you!"  she  cried,  putting  her  hand  to  her  heart  with  a 
gesture  of  the  stage. 

''I  see  that  you  are  an  actress,"  Phil  observed. 

"An  actress?  I?  Penses-tu,  bebef  I  appeared  once 
in  a  cabaret  artistique—it  disgusted  me  with  the  theater 
for  the  rest  of  my  life!" 

"You  forget  that  you  play  the  Muse  at  our  reunion," 
Poufaille  interrupted. 

"Oh,  yes!  the  Muse,"  Suzanne  replied.  "You  see, 
Phil,  since  they  bore  themselves  to  death  in  Paris,  those 
from  each  province  meet  together  and  give  balls  and 
receptions  and  lectures  and  what  not;  and  they  give 
dinners,  too— and  sing  to  the  sound  of  the  hurdy-gurdy." 

"I  'm  the  hurdy-gurdy!"  cried  Poufaille. 

"And  I  'm  the  one  that  sings,"  added  Suzanne.  "I 
eat  garlic  that  day  and  improvise  in  patois— and  every 
one  thinks  I  belong  to  his  province.  Et  die  done,  et  vive 
la  joiel" 

"Et  vive  la  joie!"  took  up  Phil. 

They  were  now  a  trio  of  friends. 

"By  the  way,  mon  cher,  where  do  you  live?"  asked 
Poufaille,  who  was  already  saying  "thou"  to  him  and 
calling  him  mon  cher  and  mon  vieux  without  knowing 
either  his  name  or  address.  Phil  told  the  hotel  he  was  at. 

"Allans  done!  but  that 's  a  quarter  of  the  arrives!" 
Poufaille  said  scornfully;  "you  have  only  bourgeois  in 
that  quarter,  medal-men,  members  of  the  jury— the  pigs ! 
You  're  done  for  if  you  stay  there ! ' ' 

"You  mustn't  stay  there  a  day  longer!"  declared 
Suzanne.  "Come  over  here;  we  '11  present  you  to  the 
copains  [comrades] . ' ' 


64  FATA  MORGANA 

Hesitation  was  impossible. 

"All  right,"  Phil  said,  as  he  put  on  his  collar  and 
cravat.  ' '  I  will  leave  to-day. ' ' 

"Will  you  come  to  my  house?"  Suzanne  asked.  "No 
ceremony,  you  know !  I  '11  bring  you  a  mattress. ' ' 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Phil. 

"Or  else  here,"  said  Poufaille.  "You  can  sleep  in  the 
corner  beside  the  potatoes,  heinf  Will  that  do?" 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Phil;  "I  '11  see  you  again  to-mor- 
row! Au  revoir!" 

The  same  evening,  having  found  a  room,  Phil  left  his 
hotel. 


CHAPTER  V 

AN    INITIATION    INTO   ART 

THE    next  day  Phil    returned  his   new  friends' 
hospitality  by  taking  them  to  lunch. 
"Where  are  we  going?"  Suzanne  asked. 

"Where  you  wish,"  answered  Phil. 

"To  Mere  Michel's,  then." 

Suzanne  delighted  in  this  restaurant.  The  food  was 
bad,  but  there  was  laughter.  Sometimes  messieurs  with 
high  hats  invited  her  to  chic  places.  Suzanne  would  re- 
fuse the  chic  restaurants  and  take  them  to  Mere  Michel 's, 
where  their  hats  brought  out  thunders  of  applause. 

Phil  had  a  Derby  hat  and  so  received  a  more  modest 
welcome.  For  that  matter,  few  people  were  there  when 
they  arrived.  Poufaille  did  the  honors  of  the  place. 

' '  Do  you  see  those  two  photos  on  the  wall,  Phil  ?  That 
—hum!— that  's  mine,  my  two  statues— 'Liberty,'  'Fra- 
ternity.' Do  you  see  this  photo  in  the  frame?  Salut! 
That  means  a  year's  credit — it  's  from  Lionsot,  a  Prix- 
de-Rome  man;  he  paid  Mere  Michel  with  an  autograph 
dedication  at  the  base  of  his  'Light-Footed  Achilles.'  ' 

"Cours  apres!"  laughed  Suzanne. 

Meanwhile  the  customers  kept  coming  in,  some  with 
4  65 


66  FATA  MORGANA 

canvases  and  paint-boxes,  others  with  only  their  long 
hair  and  unkempt  beards. 

"That  one  's  a  painter — that  one  a  sculptor — and  that 
a  musician,"  said  Poufaille.  "The  empty  place,  there  in 
the  corner,  is  the  place  of  Socrate,  a  type  epatant!  Mu- 
sician, sculptor,  painter,  and  poet,  and  philosopher— a 
whole  world  in  himself!" 

' '  Ah ! ' '  uttered  Phil,  respectfully,  as  he  looked  at  the 
empty  place. 

Nothing  was  heard  for  a  time  but  the  rattle  of  knives 
and  forks ;  then  there  was  a  great  deal  of  laughter,  with 
cries  that  punctuated  conversations  on  art.  Heads  were 
turned  for  a  few  entrances.  A  pretty  model  with  a  cloud 
of  gauze  for  a  scarf  was  greeted  with  ' '  Kiss,  kiss ! ' '  An 
old  man  with  a  gilt  band  round  his  cap  only  called  forth 
howls. 

"Eh!  you  old  Gaul!" 

"Vieux  coq!" 

"Your  'kiss,  kiss,'  makes  me  laugh,"  said  the  old  man. 
' '  Do  you  know  to-day  what '  kiss,  kiss, '  means  ?  Oh,  yes ! 
in  the  old  days  women  fell  in  love — under  the  Empire!" 

"Ta  louche,  bebe!" 

"  Ferme  $a  [shut  up]  !  " 

"He  is  the  inspector  of  the  Louvre  roofs,"  Poufaille 
said  to  Phil.  "I  am  well  acquainted  with  him.  I  see 
him  every  day." 

Phil  opened  his  eyes  wide;  everything  was  new  to 
him.  From  his  seat  he  had  also  a  view  of  the  bar  along- 
side. While  Mere  Michel  served  in  the  room  of  the  ar- 
tistes, Pere  Michel  stretched  out  his  immense  bulk  behind 
the  counter. 


AN   INITIATION  INTO  ART  67 

"That  man  he  's  serving  is  the  lackey  of  the  Duke  of 
Morgania,"  observed  Suzanne. 

"Does  the  Duke  of  Morgania  live  near  here?"  Phil 
interrupted.  He  had  read  the  name  in  the  newspapers. 

"Almost  opposite,"  Suzanne  answered. 

"Ah!"  Phil  said,  with  the  same  shade  of  respect  which 
he  had  shown  before  the  empty  seat  of  Socrate,  never 
dreaming  that  he  would  one  day  be  the  friend  of  both 
the  grand  seigneur  and  the  poet-philosopher. 

Just  then  Socrate  entered.  Pouf  aille  nudged  Phil  with 
his  elbow.  Phil  looked.  He  saw  Socrate  seat  himself  in 
his  corner,  call  the  gargon,  order  three  or  four  dishes 
and  a  liter  of  wine,  hurriedly,  at  haphazard,  like  a  man 
overwhelmed  with  thought  and  with  no  time  to  lose. 

"He  's  begun  a  work  on  the  Louvre— something  tre- 
mendous ! ' '  Pouf  aille  informed  Phil. 

"What  is  it  like?"* Phil  asked. 

"No  one  knows!" 

Phil  examined  the  man  who  seemed  to  be  carrying  the 
weight  of  a  world. 

His  skull  was  nearly  bald,  his  forehead  bulging  out, 
his  hair  about  his  ears,  while  his  beard  half  hid  a  gri- 
mace ;  his  eye  was  alert  and  sagacious. 

"He  does  resemble  him,  though,"  Phil  observed. 

"Resembles  whom?"  said  Pouf  aille. 

"Socrates  the  ancient." 

' '  So  there  was  another  ? ' '  Pouf  aille  asked. 

When  his  meal  was  over,  Socrate  arose,  sad-mannered 
and  dignified. 

"He  's  going  over  to  the  Cafe  des  Deux  Magots,"  said 
Pouf  aille.  "Let  's  go  too— you  '11  see  him  nearer." 


68  FATA  MORGANA 

The  Deux  Magots  was  the  rendezvous  of  different 
bands — the  Band  of  Cherche-Midi  (look  out  for  twelve 
o'clock!),  made  up  of  rich  Americans  playing  Bohemia 
and  frequenting  the  Deux  Magots  in  appropriate  cos- 
tume; the  band  of  the  Red-headed  Goat,  artists  who  de- 
spised art  and  occupied  themselves  with  socialism ;  and 
there  were  others  besides. 

No  one  went  to  the  Deux  Magots  for  its  coffee — they 
went  there  for  Socrate  and  Caracal.  There  could  be 
heard  Socrate,  musician,  painter,  and  poet,  speaking  of 
high  art ;  the  new  men  drank  in  his  words. 

One  day,  in  his  enthusiasm,  Charley,  the  millionaire 
Bohemian,  proposed  to  take  him  to  America  to  give  lec- 
tures on  ''The  Artistic  Atmosphere"— by  Jove! 

"Are  there  any  cafes  in  America?"   Socrate  asked. 

"Helas,  non!" 

"Then  I  stay  where  I  am,"  replied  Socrate,  the  man 
of  manly  decisions;  "when  America  has  cafes  I  '11  go 
over — not  before.  Arrangez-vous!" 

"You  're  great,  by  Jove!"  cried  Charley. 

Socrate  dazzled  the  young.  He  talked  of  everything, 
social  questions  included. 

"The  distribution  of  wealth  is  badly  made,"  he  said. 
"You  have  genius  and  no  money — and  you  '11  be  obliged 
to  work,  to  produce  and  to  sell !  To  sell,  do  you  under- 
stand ?  To  cheapen  yourself,  to  prostitute  your  genius ! 
In  society  as  I  dream  of  it,  the  artist,  freed  from  material 
bonds,  would  soar  in  serene  heights." 

Socrate  cited  the  example  of  Lionsot,  the  Prix-de- 
Rome  man,  the  sculptor  of  "Light-footed  Achilles." 
"He  had  the  Prix  do  Rome— he  has  turned  out  badly! 


Socrate  at  Deux  Magots 


AN  INITIATION  INTO  ART  71 

Yet  there  was  good  in  him :  to  pay  a  wretched  debt  for 
food  with  an  artistic  autograph— that  was  noble!" 

Most  of  them,  in  fact,  acted  like  the  famous  Lionsot — 
for  example,  whenever  Mere  Michel  demanded  her  money. 

Caracal,  who  was  not  so  deep  but  more  brilliant,  en- 
joyed a  different  prestige. 

First  of  all,  he  lived  in  the  Grands  Quartiers,  in  a 
house  with  an  elevator!  so  it  was  said.  And  while  the 
others  ate  at  Mere  Michel 's,  Caracal  would  be  supping  at 
Montmartre — supreme  elegance! 

Besides,  he  wrote  in  the  newspapers.  For  a  little  ar- 
ticle, for  one's  name  cited  in  the  "Tocsin" — how  low 
would  not  one  stoop  to  obtain  such  a  favor! 

"  'Oysters  and  Melons,'  still  life  by  X ,"  or  else 

"'Old  Tree-trunk,'  landscape  by  Z ";  and  Z 

and  X would  march  off  together  into  immortality. 

Caracal,  behind  his  monocle,  observed  the  different 
bands,  in  his  heart  deriding  every  one.  He  cross-ques- 
tioned the  comrades,  and  composed  his  newspaper  chro- 
niques  on  the  cafe  table. 

"Eh  bien!  anything  for  my  paper?  A  nice  little 
scandal  ?  Something  strong  ? ' ' 

"I  've  got  something  new, ' '  the  good-natured  Pouf aille 
would  say ;  "at  my  house,  in  the  courtyard,  a  woman  has 
been  found  dead." 

"Bravo!    Young?  pretty?" 

"No,  old." 

"And  dead— how?"  Caracal  asked.    "From  drink?" 

"No,  of  starvation.  She  was  keeping  alive  the  four 
children  of  a  neighbor  who  was  palsied ;  and  she  killed 
herself  working." 


72  FATA  MORGANA 

' '  Old  and  poor !  but  that  's  not  interesting ;  it  's  only 
tiresome!" 

And  he  went  on  with  the  conversation,  in  which  music, 
poetry,  love,  sculpture,  and  crime  made  a  horrible  mix- 
ture. 

Phil,  coming  up  from  the  province,  was  made  gloomy 
by  all  this  noise.  These  never-ending  dissertations  made 
his  head  turn.  It  was  the  invasion  of  his  brain  by  a 
world  whose  existence  he  had  never  suspected,  of  whose 
virtues  and  vices  he  had  no  idea. 

When  his  work  was  over,  the  copains  took  walks  with 
him  through  Paris  and  showed  him  such  "Parisian" 
places  as  the  Rue  Mouffetard  and  the  Rue  Saint-Medard. 

Paris  proper  did  not  count ;  you  had  to  cross  its  whole 
width  and  go  as  far  as  Montmartre  to  become  really 
Parisian.  All  had  a  single  ambition — to  be  the  painter 
of  the  wretchedly  poor,  and  of  street-women,  an  easy  art 
brought  into  fashion  by  a  few  noisy  successes.  They 
initiated  Phil  to  their  Paris,  to  the  Paris  of  the  fosses 
aux  lions,  of  leprous  quays,  of  rag-pickers'  alleys,  where 
children  played  hide-and-seek  behind  heaps  of  refuse. 
When  Phil  wished  to  go  and  dream  by  the  banks  of  the 
Seine,  they  led  him  to  the  banks  of  the  Bievre,  stinking 
like  a  charnel-house. 

"Hein!  Don't  you  see  it  's  beautiful  in  color?"  they 
said  to  him.  Phil  acknowledged,  as  he  sniffed,  that  the 
Bievre  diffused  an  "artistic  atmosphere." 

The  truth  is,  Phil  soon  had  enough  of  such  loafing. 
Of  course,  he  wasn't  a  genius  like  the  others — nothing 
came  to  him  easily.  An  organism  like  Socrate,  painter- 
poet-philosopher,  was  incomprehensible  to  him.  Such  a 


AN  INITIATION  INTO  ART  73 

man,  doing  a  colossal  work  on  the  Louvre  and  studying 
the  social  question  in  cafes,  seemed  great  to  him.  As  for 
himself,  he  was  conscious  that  he  had  not  such  gifts.  For 
him  work  was  necessary,  a  great  deal  of  work,  and  he  set 
himself  to  it  resolutely :  studies  at  the  life-class,  sketches 
in  the  street,  libraries,  museums — he  went  everywhere 
and  did  a  little  of  everything.  He  prepared  ardently 
for  his  admission  to  the  studio ;  he  frequented  the  schools 
and  appeared  but  seldom  at  the  Deux  Magots. 

Socrate,  isolated  in  pipe-smoke  like  a  god  in  a  cloud, 
condescended  to  take  an  interest  in  him. 

' '  You  work  too  much,  young  man !  Look  out !  Think 
less  of  the  material  side  and  trust  to  inspiration.  Work 
is  good.  Glory  is  better.  Think  of  glory,  young  man ! ' ' 

"Helas!"  Phil  thought;  "how  can  you  have  glory 
without  work  ? ' ' 

He  had  it  a  few  days  later— the  glory  which  was  dear 
to  the  heart  of  Socrate. 

It  was  the  day  of  his  reception  to  the  studio.  He  had 
only  to  give  his  family  name,  first  name,  and  particulars 
to  be  asked  to  get  up  on  a  table — "Step  lively  et  plus 
vite  que  QO,!"— and  to  see  around  him  a  howling  crowd, 
armed  with  brushes  and  palettes,  shouting:  "Philidor!" 

"An  American  speaking  French — where  did  you  come 
from?  En  voilaun  drole  de  type!" 

"My— my  ancestors  were  French,"  said  Phil. 

"An  American  who  has  ancestors!" 

"Philidor  de  Longueville — "  stammered  Phil. 

"Philidor!  Philidor!" 

"Sing  us  something!" 

"Take  off  your  clothes!" 


74  FATA   MORGANA 

Phil  began  undressing. 

"Step  lively  et  plus  vite  que  ga!" 

Fifty  savages  were  howling,  yelling,  laughing,  and 
hissing  around  him. 

' '  Enough !  enough ! ' ' 

"Encore!  encore!" 

1 '  Paint  him  blue ! ' ' 

' '  No,  no ! " 

"Yes,  yes!" 

Phil  was  already  stripped  to  the  waist,  facing  the 
great  window  in  full  light.  At  his  feet  the  confused  mass 
of  students  was  hushed— they  stood  in  a  circle  around 
him.  He  heard  their  approving  murmurs  as  they  ad- 
mired his  thoroughbred  muscles,  his  broad  shoulders,  the 
nervous  slenderness  of  his  waist. 

"Bravo,  1'Americain !  There  's  a  man  who  's  built! 
You  'd  say  he  was  an  antique — c'est  un  costeau — he  '11 
be  a  great  boy!  I  wouldn't  want  him  to  punch  me — 
he  's  a  good  '  fellow,  too !  Enough !  enough !  Dress 
yourself,  Philidor!  A  Ban  for  Philidor!" 

"Pan !  pan  !  pan  !  pan  !  pan  ! 
Pan  !  pan  ! " 

Thus  Phil  made  acquaintance  with  the  intoxication  of 
glory. 

Profiting  by  the  moment  of  silence,  a  grave  voice  arose. 

"The  welcome!" 

Phil,  over  the  heads,  saw  amid  the  smoke  a  bearded 
face  under  a  great  bald  forehead. 

"Socrate  has  just  come  in,"  a  pupil  said  to  Phil. 
"Socrate,  an  astonishing  man — painter-poet!" 


';  Stripped  to  the  waist 


AN  INITIATION  INTO  ART  77 

"I  know  Socrate,"  Phil  said  with  pride. 

"The  welcome!"  Socrate  repeated. 

"C'est  ga!  That  's  it,  the  welcome!"  the  whole  hall 
cried. 

' '  That  means  you  must  pay  the  drinks  for  the  studio, ' ' 
the  pupil  explained.  "It  's  the  custom  here." 

"Messieurs,  whenever  you  wish,"  said  Phil. 

"At  the  Deux  Magots  and  at  once,"  Socrate  insisted, 
like  a  man  accustomed  to  prompt  decisions. 

Phil  dressed  himself,  and  all  went  out  into  the  streets, 
en  route  for  the  Deux  Magots.  Socrate,  the  glory  of  the 
studio,  leader  of  men,  and  genius— Socrate  himself  gave 
his  arm  to  Phil. 

"Say,  young  man,"  whispered  Socrate,  who  was  mas- 
ter of  himself  in  any  crowd,  "you  couldn't  lend  me 
twenty  francs?" 

After  this  glorious  day  Phil's  existence  seemed  flat. 
From  his  childhood  he  had  been  accustomed  to  free 
air,  to  liberty  in  great  spaces ;  and  now  he  had  to 
live  a  cloistered  life,  shut  up  in  himself,  but  with 
work,  it  is  true,  for  distraction.  He  worked  sadly  and 
alone. 

In  front  of  his  window,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine, 
stretched  the  Louvre.  Beyond,  far  away,  above  the 
smoke  of  Paris,  the  church  of  the  Sacre-Creur  lifted  its 
Oriental  dome.  To  the  right  was  the  Pont  Neuf  with  the 
point  of  the  island  of  the  Cite  and  Notre  Dame;  to  the 
left  was  the  greenery  of  the  Tuileries,  the  Grand  Palais, 
the  Arc  de  Triomphe. 

Now  and  then  Suzanne  came.  But  Suzanne  was  far 
from  being  Helia.  Her  frivolity  made  Phil  shy,  though 


78  FATA  MORGANA 

her  babbling  talk  amused  him.     She  kept  Phil  posted, 
telling  him  all  the  important  news. 

Poufaille,  for  example,  was  surely  going  to  give  up 
sculpture  and  become  a  painter— 1'Institut  would  have 
to  look  out  for  itself !  They  had  rejected  his  statue.  " Eh 
bien,  they  '11  see !  And  then,  paintings  sell  better ! ' ' 
added  Suzanne. 

"Does  he  sell  his  paintings?"  Phil  asked  with  aston- 
ishment. "What  does  he  do  for  a  living?" 

"He  has  something  to  do  at  the  Louvre,  I  believe," 
Suzanne  said.  But  she  immediately  became  silent  and 
bit  her  lip. 

"A  copy,  of  course — ornaments  for  a  plafond?"  Phil 
asked. 

"I  believe  so,"  Suzanne  answered,  fearing  to  say  too,, 
much. 

"There  is  some  secret,"  Phil  thought. 

But  the  very  day  she  told  him  all  this  his  door  opened 
suddenly  and  Poufaille  entered  with  a  furious  air. 

"Ah,  the  pigs!"  he  cried,  shaking  his  fist  toward  the 
Louvre ;  and  he  threw  into  a  corner  a  tool  which  Phil 
took  at  first  for  a  sculptor 's  instrument.  It  was  a  spade. 

' '  What  's  that  ? ' '  asked  Phil.    ' '  What  's  the  matter  ? ' ' 

"That  's  my  spade;  and  the  matter  is  they  are  pigs!" 

"Have  they  taken  your  plafond  away  from  you?" 
Phil  asked  on  a  chance. 

"What  plafond?"  Poufaille  cried.  "They  're  trying 
to  keep  me  from  cultivating  my  potatoes!" 

"Potatoes?"  exclaimed  Phil. 

"Phil  doesn't  know  about  it,"  Suzanne  said  to  Pou- 
faille. 


"  '  They  are  pigs  ! ' 


AN  INITIATION   INTO  ART  81 

"Eh  bien—tant  pis— it  's  a  secret,"  Poufaille  cried; 
"but  I  'm  going  to  tell  it.  And,  besides,  a  secret  chokes 
me,  like  your  collars ! ' ' 

''If  it's  a  secret,  I  don't  want  to  know  it,"  Phil 
answered. 

"Si,  si!  You  must.  I  '11  tell  it  to  you — under  seal 
of  secrecy !  See  here, ' '  Poufaille  went  on ;  ' '  I  'm  gar- 
dener at  the  Louvre ! ' ' 

"Nothing  wonderful  in  that,"  Phil  said,  as  he  looked 
across  the  Seine  at  the  flower-beds  and  green  turf  at  the 
foot  of  the  Louvre  facade. 

"Not  there,"  Poufaille  explained.  "Not  down  there 
—but  up  yonder!  I  'm  gardener  of  the  Louvre 
roofs!" 

Looking  where  Poufaille  pointed,  Phil  perceived,  high, 
high  up  against  the  blue  sky,  tufts  of  greenery  actually 
growing  above  that  part  of  the  Louvre  Palace.  He  knew 
there  were  a  few  roof-gardens  in  Paris ;  but  he  had  never 
noticed  this  one. 

"Now  you  understand!"  Poufaille  said,  with  gesticu- 
lation. "There  's  no  means  of  keeping  up  an  under- 
standing with  them !  It  has  ended  by  wearing  me  out. 
Always  roses,  iris,  and  gillyflowers,  and  gillyflowers,  iris, 
and  roses.  That  sort  of  stuff  won 't  fill  my  stomach !  I 
wanted  to  plant  potatoes.  I  could  live  on  them!  But 
they  've  refused  permission— and  I  tell  you,  they  're 
pigs!" 

"But  they— who  are  they?" 

"Eh!    They— when  I  say  'they*  I  mean  him  I" 

"Well,  who  is  he?" 

"The  old  guardian  of  the  Louvre  roofs." 


82  FATA  MORGANA 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Phil;  "I  saw  him  at  Mere  Michel's. 
And  so  you  're  his  gardener?" 

"I  am — that  is,  I  was!" 

An  idea  came  to  Phil.  He  was  stifled  in  his  room ;  he 
might  have — up  there,  close  by — a  garden  to  himself. 

"Dis  done,  old  Poufaille,  what  if  they  gave  me  the 
gardener's  place?" 

"That  could  be  done  easily;  but  I  warn  you — you  '11 
have  no  right  to  cultivate  potatoes!" 

"I  '11  be  content  with  flowers." 

"What  eccentricity!"  Poufaille  exclaimed,  in  the 
height  of  astonishment.  "Ah,  you  're  very  American!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  HANGING  GARDENS  OF  PARIS 

HENCEFORTH  Phil  had  glorious  days.  Poufaille, 
whom  he  made  his  assistant  gardener,  dug  and 
watered  and  trimmed  the  alleys.  It  increased 
Phil 's  expenses,  but  what  a  pleasure  for  him,  after  work, 
to  pursue  his  dreams  as  he  walked  amid  the  flowers ! 

Long  months  had  gone  by  since  Phil's  reception  into 
the  studio.  He  had  passed  through  many  trials  since 
then,  and  known  discouragements  and  dogged  labor  and 
the  joy  of  progress.  Should  he  walk  on  a  ball  to  earn  his 
bread  or  hold  the  globe  in  his  hand  like  a  Caesar?  An 
effort,  and  then  another,  and  an  effort  once  more !  The 
periods  of  want  did  not  discourage  him.  Still  he  had 
a  sad  existence,  and  his  only  amusement  was  to  come  up 
here  and  breathe  the  pure  air. 

The  garden  of  the  Louvre,  on  top  of  Perrault's  colon- 
nade, was  a  resting-place  for  the  pigeons  in  their  flight 
over  Paris.  They  lighted  there  in  bands,  heedless  of  Phil 
and  Poufaille.  But  one  day  the  birds  were  all  a-flutter. 
The  hanging  garden  had  its  Semiramis— Helia ! 

Phil,  while  they  held  their  dismayed  flight  above  him, 

83 


84  FATA  MORGANA 

sat  at  the  feet  of  Helia,  who  looked  down  and  smiled  at 
him.  To  the  young  girl  it  was  a  strange  place.  For 
thirty  years  the  inspector  of  the  Louvre  roofs — the  same 
man  whom  Phil  had  already  seen  at  Mere  Michel's— had 
been  making  this  garden,  bringing  up  little  by  little  the 
earth  in  which  the  plants  grew,  and  the  pebbles  which 
covered  the  alleys.  Boxes  hidden  among  the  foliage  held 
great  shrubs;  the  perfume  of  iris  and  gillyflower,  of 
mignonette  and  roses,  breathed  from  the  flower-beds. 
Hanging  over  the  borders  were  ripening  currants  and 
peaches  and  apples ;  and  laurels  gave  their  purple  flow- 
ers. A  whole  row  of  statues  and  busts  outlined  the  plots. 
Helia  pointed  to  the  busts. 

"The  one  who  looks  like  a  circus-rider  with  his  big 
mustaches — who  is  he?" 

"Napoleon  III,"  Phil  answered. 

"And  that  other  with  his  hair  brushed  up  to  a  point 
like  a  clown?" 

"That  is  Louis-Philippe." 

1 '  And  this  one  ?  and  that  one  ? ' ' 

Phil  went  on  explaining  his  aerial  paradise. 

"This  is  Grevy,  that  is  Carnot;  here  is  M.  Thiers— 
these  are  all  official  busts.  When  the  government  changes 
they  pack  them  off  to  the  attic,  and  the  inspector  has  put 
them  here  to  ornament  his  garden. 

"And  this  arm-chair  on  which  I  am  sitting,  with  all 
its  gilding  rubbed  off?  Is  that  official  also?"  Helia 
asked,  examining  the  wood,  carved  with  palms,  and  the 
red  velvet  embroidered  with  the  attributes  of  Law  and 
Justice. 

"-It 's  a  relic  of  the  Revolution  of  '48,"  answered  Phil ; 


THE  HANGING  GARDENS  OF   PARIS  85 

"we  found  it  only  lately  in  the  attic— it  was  King  Louis- 
Philippe's  throne." 

"A  king's  throne!"  Helia  said,  jumping  up.  "How 
can  you  think  of  it  for  a  poor  girl  like  me  ?  You  would 
be  better  in  it,  Phil.  Seat  yourself;  I  wish  you  to— I 
command  you!"  she  said,  imitating  what  she  considered 
the  royal  tone. 

"Well,  since  you  wish  it— 

"Yes;  it  's  your  place— and  here  is  mine,"  she  added, 
as  she  seated  herself  at  Phil's  feet.  "Stay  there,  Phil— 
leave  me  at  your  feet.  I  am  so  happy ! ' ' 

Happy !  She  could  not  have  found  words  to  express 
it  all!  For  months  and  months  and  months  she  had 
thought  of  Phil  every  day  and  every  hour — Phil,  friend 
of  her  childhood  and  youth,  who  had  loved  her  well,  who 
would  have  protected  her  against  Cemetery— Phil,  her 
hero !  And  now  she  saw  him  again ;  he  was  there  before 
her,  her  head  was  resting  on  his  knees,  in  the  calm  of  the 
beautiful  day.  How  could  she  have  told  her  happiness? 

Phil,  on  his  arrival  in  Paris,  had  thought  less  about 
Helia  at  first,  overburdened  as  he  was  with  all  his  new 
impressions ;  but  the  environment  in  which  he  lived  was 
not  pleasant  to  him.  His  illusions  had  been  cast  to 
earth ;  he  was  in  an  abyss  of  temptations  from  which  he 
could  not,  like  Suzanne,  free  himself  by  a  smile  or  a 
shrug.  But  he  soon  regained  possession  of  himself;  he 
made  of  Helia  an  ideal.  He  knew  no  young  girl  of  his 
own  sphere,  and  he  took  refuge  in  the  thought  of  Helia 
as  in  a  place  of  safety.  She  personified  his  innocent 
youth.  Phil  still  had  in  him  the  old  Puritan  austerity 
—he  whose  family  Bible  showed  on  its  margin  this  proud 


86  FATA  MORGANA 

device  written  in  faded  ink  by  some  persecuted  ancestor : 
"No  judge  but  God,  no  woman  but  the  wife!"  He  was 
grateful  to  Helia  because  her  remembrance  protected 
him ;  because  she  seemed  to  him  always  so  pure. 

Accordingly,  when  Helia  came  back,  with  the  superb 
confidence  of  youth  which  believes  in  the  everlastingness 
of  things,  Phil  looked  on  her  again  with  joy.  In  spite  of 
the  rude  life  she  was  leading,  she  was  more  modest  and 
charming  than  ever;  and  she  was  so  beautiful!  Helia 
came  into  Phil's  life  at  a  dangerous  moment — an  accom- 
plice of  the  sun  and  the  fragrance  of  roses. 

"How  beautiful  she  is!"  Phil  thought,  as  he  looked 
at  her  faultless  features  and  her  eyes,  in  which  a  flame 
seemed  burning. 

"How  handsome  you  are !"  Helia  said  to  him,  scanning 
his  firm  expression  and  look  of  frankness. 

They  talked  of  one  thing  and  another,  thinking  of  each 
other  all  the  while ;  or  else  they  remained  without  speak- 
ing, he  on  his  throne,  she  at  his  feet,  their  gaze  lost  in  the 
tumultuous,  motionless  ocean  of  houses. 

Paris  was  around  them  with  its  muffled  murmur.  At 
the  height  where  they  were  a  pigeon's  cooing  subdued 
the  noise  of  three  million  human  beings;  at  their  feet 
carriages  filled  the  streets,  moving  on  ceaselessly,  like  a 
silent  river.  Helia  looked  to  the  horizon  before  her. 
First  of  all  she  descried,  among  the  trees  of  the  Quai 
de  Conti,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine,  Phil's  little 
window.  That  was  her  first  halting-place.  La  Monnaie 
(the  Mint),  with  all  its  millions  on  one  side,  and  the 
Institut  (the  palace  of  the  Academy),  with  its  Immor- 
tals, on  the  other,  interested  her  less.  For  her  they  were 


THE   HANGING  GARDENS  OF  PARIS  87 

simply  side-pieces,  setting  Phil's  attic  in  relief.  Just 
behind,  over  an  immensity  of  roofs,  the  Palais  du  Lux- 
embourg served  as  a  background.  Farther  still,  to  right 
and  left  and  everywhere,  even  in  the  distant  blue,  could 
be  seen  cupolas  and  spires,  towers  and  domes.  The 
church  of  the  Sacre-Cceur  rose  above  this  ocean  like  a 
cliff  at  whose  foot  the  smoke  beat  up  like  waves. 

' '  How  beautiful  it  is !  Oh,  Phil,  is  it  not  beautiful  ? 
And  how  happy  I  am!"  said  Helia. 

In  those  first  days  the  strangeness  of  the  place  intimi- 
dated her;  even  the  busts  took  from  the  privacy  of 
the  spot.  But  she  soon  came  to  look  on  them  as  old 
friends,  treating  them  as  equals,  as  sovereign  to  sover- 
eign. When  Phil  was  painting  and  herself  posing  for 
him,  she  would  tranquilly  disembarrass  herself  of  her 
collar  and  place  it  on  the  shoulders  of  Napoleon  III  and 
crown  the  blessed  head  of  Louis-Philippe  with  her  flow- 
ery hat.  She  sat  on  the  old  throne,  and  presided  without 
ceremony  over  the  assembled  monarchs. 

The  little  garden  seemed  immense  to  her,  for  it  held 
their  happiness.  In  reality,  it  occupied  only  one  angle  of 
the  middle  pediment  above  the  colonnade  which  looks 
toward  Saint-Germain  1'Auxerrois. 

From  that  corner,  flat  as  a  Russian  steppe,  stretched 
the  immense  oblong  of  the  zinc  roofs  which  surround  the 
court  of  the  Louvre,  forming  a  desert  six  hundred  yards 
long  by  thirty  wide.  Farther  on,  pointed  roofs  and  pa- 
vilions and  deep  gutters  invited  to  adventure,  and  they 
amused  themselves  in  exploring  their  domain. 

Especially  the  side  toward  the  river  attracted  them. 
They  went  along  the  balustrade  above  the  Place  Saint- 

5 


88  FATA  MORGANA 

Germain,  and  turned  to  the  right  above  the  Quai  du 
Louvre.  An  enormous  piece  of  decoration,  composed 
of  bucklers  and  lances  and  fasces  of  piled  arms  sculp- 
tured in  the  stone,  terminated  the  flat  roof,  like  an  army 
watching  over  the  frontier  of  their  empire.  They  went 
down  a  little  iron  ladder  across  the  Galerie  des  Bijoux 
and  turned  to  the  left  above  the  Galerie  d'Apollon. 
Helia  followed  hesitatingly;  it  seemed  to  her  that  the 
whole  city  was  looking  at  them. 

In  reality,  no  one  could  see  her.  They  were  shut  off 
from  the  Seine  by  the  leafy  tree-tops;  only  the  cries  of 
children  playing  on  the  lawns  came  up  to  them,  mingled 
with  the  twittering  of  sparrows.  The  next  moment  they 
found  themselves  in  gutters  deep  as  the  beds  of  rivers. 
They  discovered  peaceable  corners  which  the  old  kings 
of  France  seemed  to  have  built  expressly  for  themselves. 
At  times  they  might  have  thought  themselves  in  gardens 
of  stone. 

There  were  lofty  chimneys  profusely  carved  with  gar- 
lands; the  leaves  of  acanthus  and  laurel  and  oak  were 
interlaced  with  strange  flowers,  among  which  laughed  the 
loves  and  satyrs  of  the  Renaissance.  Cornucopias  poured 
at  their  feet  their  marble  fruits ;  and  goddesses,  standing 
against  the  blue  sky,  trumpeted  through  their  shells  the 
happiness  of  their  loves. 

In  the  distance  their  own  garden  seemed  like  an  oasis 
of  greenery.  After  long  reveries  it  was  sweet  to  them  to 
come  back  and  breathe  the  air  of  its  roses  and  to  hear 
the  birds  twitter  in  the  shrubbery  of  their  paradise. 

Helia,  since  she  had  made  Phil 's  acquaintance,  blushed 
for  her  ignorance.  She  had  given  to  reading  all  the  time 


THE  HANGING  GARDENS  OF  PARIS  89 

left  her  by  her  exercises ;  there  was  in  her  something  else 
than  superb  physical  beauty.  Sometimes,  with  the  blood 
in  her  face  and  glad  to  be  alive,  after  scaling  with  an 
acrobat's  agility  the  obstacles  of  the  roof,  she  would 
stop  and  ask  Phil  questions  which  showed  a  thoughtful 
mind.  She  listened  to  his  replies  with  attention,  little 
by  little  ridding  herself  of  the  common  speech  and  nar- 
row views  of  her  trade. 

' '  Say,  Phil, ' '  she  remarked  to  him  one  day  as  they  were 
looking  out  over  the  great  courtyard  of  the  Louvre  be- 
neath them,  "Blondin  would  have  crossed  that,  dancing 
on  a  tight-rope !  I  believe  I  could  do  it,  too, ' '  she  added, 
so  light  and  strong  did  she  feel.  But  she  soon  saw  that 
such  ideas  were  not  pleasing  to  Phil :  he  loved  her  in 
spite  of  her  being  a  circus-girl  and  not  because  she  was 
one. 

At  once  she  spoke  of  other  things. 

"No  one  ever  taught  me  anything,  Phil;  teach  me,  you 
who  speak  so  well." 

Phil  was  radiant.  Encouraged  by  her  desire  to  know, 
he  willingly  became  her  educator  and  poured  out  his 
knowledge  for  her.  He  modeled  Helia's  mind  on  his  own. 
She  belonged  to  him  more  and  more.  She  thought  like 
him,  through  him,  for  him.  Her  maiden  intelligence 
gave  itself  up  to  him.  Phil  was  grateful  to  her  for  the 
progress  she  was  making.  A  look  from  her  limpid  eyes, 
a  grasp  of  her  hand,  were  his  sweet  reward.  They  moved 
him  more  deeply  than  words  of  love  could  have  done; 
and  more  and  more  Helia  grew  to  be  a  part  of  him.  Phil 
talked  to  her  of  Paris  and  of  the  persons  he  knew  there. 
Helia  answered  with  her  clear  good  sense. 


90  FATA  MORGANA 

"The  dirty  banks  of  the  Bievre— what  an  idea— when 
the  Seine  is  so  pretty  at  Saint-Cloud!  But  perhaps 
ugliness  is  easier  to  paint  ? ' ' 

"Perhaps,"  said  Phil.     "That  must  be  the  reason." 

"As  for  me,"  Helia  said,  "I  'm  only  an  ignorant  girl 
— I  love  beautiful  things!" 

"Look,  Phil,  what  is  that  we  see  down  there?"  she 
said  one  day,  as  she  was  leaning  over  a  skylight. 

Phil  looked ;  they  were  just  above  one  of  the  halls  of 
the  Egyptian  Museum,  and  they  saw  strange  objects 
beneath  them— statues  of  gods,  mummies  of  kings,  a 
pell-mell  of  fallen  grandeur.  A  squatting  Sphinx  lifted 
its  head  and  stared  at  them.  Through  the  dusty  glass 
they  might  have  thought  they  were  looking  into  an  entire 
past,  engulfed  in  the  depths  of  the  sea.  A  broken  column 
spoke  of  the  crumbling  of  temples,  a  mutilated  god  of 
the  overthrow  of  altars,  a  dun-colored  sarcophagus 
of  the  heaping  up  of  the  sand  beneath  desert  winds. 
Phil  explained  these  dead  things  to  Helia  and  gave 
them  life. 

"Ah,"  Helia  said,  "what  happiness  it  is  to  know!" 

They  were  alone,  half  kneeling  on  the  roof,  their  heads 
bent  toward  the  skylight ;  around  them  Paris  murmured 
like  an  ocean.  They  could  have  imagined  themselves  the 
survivors  of  a  world  destroyed— the  only  woman  and  the 
only  man  escaped  from  the  cataclysm,  while  the  mysteri- 
ous Sphinx  raised  its  head  as  if  to  say:  "Love!  for  life 
passes  as  a  dream!" 

Phil  and  Helia  arose  in  silence  and  came  back  to  their 
oasis,  while  above  them,  in  the  blue  sky,  the  doves  pur- 
sued one  another. 


Ou  the  Hoofs  of  the  Louvre 


THE   HANGING  GARDENS  OF  PARIS  93 

"Look  at  the  birds,"  said  Helia.  "Come  quick  and 
give  them  their  grain. ' ' 

The  doves,  as  free  as  those  of  St.  Mark's  or  of  the 
Guildhall,  had  quickly  accustomed  themselves  to  her, 
and  the  presence  of  Helia  did  not  trouble  them. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  Phil  to  see  Helia  in  the  midst  of 
their  cooings  and  the  beating  of  their  wings.  They  came 
to  eat  from  her  hand.  As  one  of  them  lighted  on  her 
shoulder,  Helia  had  an  inspiration.  She  took  the  dove 
and  gave  a  long  kiss  to  its  wings. 

"Here,  Phil!  Do  like  me!"  she  said,  presenting  the 
other  wing  to  him.  ' '  And  now,  fly  away ! ' '  she  added, 
letting  loose  the  bird,  who  in  its  flight  seemed  to  sow 
Paris  with  kisses. 

And  so  the  days  passed.  It  was  usually  in  the  after- 
noons that  they  met.  In  the  mornings  Phil  worked  and 
Helia  studied  at  home  or  else  rehearsed  at  the  circus. 
Poufaille  took  care  of  the  garden.  The  inspector  made 
his  rounds,  and  sometimes,  in  the  afternoon,  watched 
Helia  and  Phil  from  his  hiding-place  behind  a  bush. 

The  old  man  "of  my  time"  confessed  that  lovers  still 
existed,  and  that  these  were  real  and  kissed  each  other 
as  they  did  in  "his  time"  under  the  Third  Empire.  But 
usually  they  were  alone.  Suzanne  came  only  now  and 
then  to  pick  a  rose. 

' '  What  bears  you  are ! "  she  said  as  she  looked  at  Phil 
and  Helia.  "How  can  you  stay  in  this  desert,  with 
nothing  but  flowers  and  flowers,  and  pigeons  and  pi- 
geons ?  You  '11  not  come  to  the  Bon  Marche  ?  Good-by, 
then!"  And  she  would  go  tumbling  down  the  stairs. 

Phil  painted  a  few  studies  from  Helia.    She  posed  for 


94  FATA  MORGANA 

her  portrait  amid  the  flowers.  Sometimes,  in  hours  of 
discouragement,  when  his  work  went  badly  and  his  fu- 
ture seemed  doubtful  and  the  struggle  became  too  pain- 
ful, Phil  would  dream  as  he  looked  at  Helia. 

"I  will  take  her  out  of  the  life  she  is  leading,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "I  Ve  promised  her!  I  will  tear  her 
from  her  surroundings ;  I  will  make  a  cultivated  woman 
of  her  yet.  It  is  God  who  has  led  her  to  cross  my  path. 
I— I—" 

And  for  a  long  time  he  would  remain  lost  in  thought. 

In  truth,  it  was  a  serious  moment  for  him.  Phil  was 
too  young,  too  much  left  to  himself,  to  be  content  for 
any  length  of  time  with  this  simple  role  of  friendship. 
He  was  caught  at  his  own  game ;  and,  seeing  her  day  by 
day  more  beautiful  and  good,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
could  no  longer  live  without  her. 

What,  then?  Should  he  play  with  love,  taking  it  for 
a  toy?  Should  he  fashion  her  heart  only  to  break  it? 
No!  The  blood  which  his  veins  inherited  forbade  him 
such  meanness.  He  would  have  despised  himself  as  if 
he  had  been  the  dust  of  Sodom. 

Should  he  marry  her,  then? 

"Helia  is  devotedness  itself,  tenderness,  grace,"  he 
thought;  "her  poverty  is  the  sister  of  my  own:  we  are 
equal.  And  yet,  no!  it  is  impossible,  really!  I  cannot 
marry  Helia — a  circus-girl!" 

But  this  objection  disappeared  before  the  lofty,  frank, 
luminous  look  of  Helia  and  the  candor  of  her  smile. 

And  still  the  days  passed  on.  It  was  splendid  weather. 
Never  had  they  so  appreciated  their  little  oasis,  where 
there  was  always  some  breeze  while  at  their  feet  the  city 


THE  HANGING  GARDENS  OF  PARIS  95 

was  stifling  in  the  dull  heat;  though  even  they  them- 
selves were  sometimes  almost  overcome  by  it. 

One  afternoon  Phil  stuck  up  his  canvas  in  the  tool- 
shed  and  stretched  himself  in  the  shade  near  Helia. 
They  talked  of  a  thousand  things  or  were  silent  for  a 
time,  clasping  each  other's  hands.  Suddenly  Phil 
jumped  up. 

"Let  us  go!"  he  said.  "It  is  time.  We  never  stayed 
so  late." 

But  they  found  the  door  closed. 

The  guardian,  no  doubt,  had  glanced  around  the  oasis, 
and,  seeing  no  one,  had  closed  the  door  and  gone  down. 

"He  must  have  thought  we  had  gone  away,"  said 
Phil.  "We  are  prisoners  till  to-morrow!" 

' '  What  an  adventure ! ' '  said  Helia.  Both  laughed 
heartily. 

Their  supper  was  delightful.  Poufaille  would  have 
regretted  there  was  no  garlic  or  potatoes ;  but  there  were 
strawberries,  and  two  cakes  which  Phil  had  brought  for 
lunch,  and  good  fresh  water  instead  of  wine.  They  had 
never  eaten  better;  it  was  as  charming  as  child's  play. 
Helia  cut  the  fruits,  dividing  the  oranges  and  arranging 
the  parts  on  leaves  from  the  bushes.  To  drink,  she 
dipped  the  glass  in  a  bucket  of  water  at  her  side. 

' '  Here,  Phil,  drink ! ' '  she  said,  as  she  offered  him  the 
glass. 

"You  first!"  answered  Phil. 

Helia  touched  her  lips  to  the  water,  and  Phil  drank 
off  the  glass. 

"  It  's  better  than  champagne, ' '  he  said. 

"Here,  Phil,  here  's  a  beautiful  strawberry!" 


96  FATA  MORGANA 

"Taste  it  first!"  said  Phil. 

Helia  put  the  berry  between  her  lips,  and  Phil  took  it 
from  her  with  a  kiss.  The  child's  play  was  growing 
dangerous. 

"Marchons!    Now  let  's  take  a  walk!"  said  Phil. 

"C'est  Qa!    Let  's  climb  our  Himalaya!"  cried  Helia. 

This  was  the  name  they  had  given  to  the  Pavilion 
Sully,  which  lifts  its  enormous  bulk  between  the  Louvre 
courtyard  and  the  Cour  du  Carrousel.  It  was  the  cul- 
minating-point  of  the  roof.  But  the  excursion  was  im- 
possible in  full  daylight;  they  would  have  been  seen 
from  below ;  by  night  no  one  could  see  them. 

They  passed  through  their  wilderness  and,  following 
the  roof  on  the  other  side,  came  to  the  foot  of  the  pavil- 
ion. There,  in  the  shadow  of  a  chimney  as  big  as  a  tower, 
iron  steps  had  been  placed  along  the  dome  from  bottom 
to  top,  and  an  iron  rod  at  the  side  served  as  a  hand-rail. 

"En  route!"  said  Phil. 

The  ascent,  which  was  at  first  straight  up,  curved 
little  by  little  over  the  round  dome ;  then  there  was 
again  a  straight-up  ascent  along  the  crown  of  the 
dome;  and  when  this  was  passed  they  were  at  the  top. 
Helia  followed  without  difficulty— it  was  nothing 
for  her. 

They  were  on  their  Himalaya.  To  right  and  left 
opened  the  abysses  of  the  courtyards  below,  and  on  every 
side  the  immense  roofs  with  their  humps  and  turrets 
and  projections  stood  out  black  as  ebony  against  the 
glow  of  Paris.  Lights  sparkled  above  and  below— in 
the  heavens  and  from  the  city,  which  seemed  another 
heaven  at  their  feet. 


tTHE  HANGING  GARDENS  OF  PARIS  97 

La  Villette,  the  Trocadero,  Montrouge,  and  the  Bas- 
tille lighted  up  their  constellations.  The  Champs-Ely- 
sees  stretched  out  like  a  comet.  Montmartre  shone  palely 
along  the  horizon  like  a  far-off  nebula ;  the  great  circle 
of  the  boulevards  belted  the  city  with  a  Milky  Way. 
High  up  among  the  stars  the  Eiffel  Tower  lifted  its 
torch,  like  the  pole-star. 

"How  grand  it  all  is!"  said  Helia.  She  was  on  the 
wide  parapet,  and  her  hair,  loosened  as  she  climbed  up, 
floated  in  the  wind ;  her  breast  rose  and  fell  as  she  caught 
her  breath  again.  A  thousand  broken  lights  came  to 
them  where  they  stood  amid  the  stars.  You  might  have 
said  they  were  Youth  and  Love  in  the  center  of  the 
universe. 

"How  beautiful  you  are!"  said  Phil. 

"Let  us  go  down,"  said  Helia. 

But  as  they  climbed  down  there  was  a  sudden  cry. 
A  rusty  step  yielded  under  Phil's  weight,  and,  letting 
go  the  hand-rail,  he  glided  toward  the  abyss. 

Without  losing  her  head,  with  the  rapidity  and  cool 
decision  of  a  trained  acrobat,  stretching  out  one  arm 
and  holding  hard  with  the  other,  and  with  her  breast 
flat  against  the  wounding  rungs,  Helia  by  a  mighty  ef- 
fort grasped  Phil 's  wrist  as  he  slid  past  her.  The  hand- 
rail held  firm,  and  Phil  was  saved.  Then  they  came  back 
again  to  their  oasis. 

"Without  you  I  should  have  been  lost,"  said  Phil. 

"Oh,  no!"  Helia  answered,  laughing  bravely.  "We 
were  almost  down,  close  to  the  roof;  you  would  have 
had  a  slide,  that  's  all!" 

Phil  was  moved  to  tears. 


98  FATA  MORGANA 

"Come,  pull  yourself  together,"  Helia  said,  "and 
then  to  supper!" 

She  reached  out  her  hand  and  took  an  apple  grace- 
fully and  offered  it  to  Phil. 

"Here,  eat!" 

Her  simple  gesture  in  offering  him  the  apple  had,  to 
Phil's  mind,  something  grandly  Biblical  in  it,  and  the 
idea  overpowered  him.  As  she  held  out  her  hand  Phil 
saw  that  it  was  bleeding,  and  exclaimed  with  anxiety. 

"It  is  nothing,"  she  answered;  "it  was  just  now— 
perhaps  while  I  was  holding  on  to  the  railing." 

With  infinite  respect  he  put  his  lips  to  the  wound 
—and  suddenly  he  seemed  to  be  drinking  love  at  its 
source;  the  fire  ran  through  his  veins;  he  seized  Helia 
with  both  arms  and  kissed  her  full  on  the  mouth,  crush- 
ing his  lips  against  hers ! 

' '  Helia,  I  love  you !  I  love  you,  and  you  shall  be  my 
wife!" 

"Your  wife!  Alas,  a  poor  girl  like  me!  How  can 
you  think  of  it,  Phil?" 

"And  I  will  serve  you  on  my  knees!"  said  Phil. 

He  pressed  Helia  to  his  heart,  and  the  girl  wept  for 
joy.  Phil  drank  the  tears  on  her  cheeks,  and  murmured 
words  of  love — with  Heaven  as  witness. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A    RUDE   AWAKENING 

OW  followed  a  time  of  struggle  and  want;  but 
Phil  supported  his  trials  gaily,  and  gave  the 
same  enthusiasm  to  his  work  which  he  had 
given  to  his  love. 

At  the  school  Phil  was  successful.  The  walls  of  his 
room  became  covered  with  sketches, — life  studies,  land- 
scapes, compositions,— and  more  and  more  studies  of 
Helia,  studies  without  end,  all  adorably  graceful,  and 
showing  at  once  the  artist  and  the  lover.  All  the  phases 
of  their  existence  were  there,  from  the  little  Saint  John, 
and  the  girl  mending  her  maillot  on  the  steps  of  the 
circus-wagon,  to  the  present  Helia,  the  beautiful  young 
woman  whom  he  had  decided  to  make  his  companion 
for  life. 

It  was  without  fear  that  Phil  felt  this  increase  of 
responsibility.  It  was  even  necessary  that  Helia  should 
use  all  her  authority  over  him  to  persuade  him  to  let  her 
go  where  her  engagements  called  her.  He  was  too  poor 
to  pay  her  forfeits,  and  he  consented.  Soon  Helia  was 
to  go  abroad.  This  would  be  the  last  time  they  should 
separate ;  Phil  swore  it.  When  Helia  should  come  back, 
99 


100  FATA  MORGANA 

it  would  be  for  always.  And  what  a  woman  he  would 
make  of  her!  Helia  should  be  his  masterpiece. 

The  portrait  he  had  painted  from  her  would  be  worth 
a  Salon  medal,— his  master  assured  him  so,— and  that 
would  bring  him  out  of  his  difficulties.  Orders  would 
doubtless  follow;  but,  while  waiting,  he  would  have  to 
live.  Phil  here  and  there  sold  a  few  little  paintings. 
Sometimes  he  had  to  run  all  over  Paris  to  accomplish 
this;  but  he  told  Helia  where  he  was  going,  and  they 
would  come  back  arm  in  arm  like  brother  and  sister, 
while  her  smile  scattered  all  his  cares  to  the  winds. 

His  troubles  had  their  reward  in  great  happiness. 
There  were  vases  full  of  flowers  upon  his  table  and 
pretty  curtains  at  his  window;  and,  on  his  birthday, 
Helia,  with  a  bouquet,  gave  him  a  kiss  into  which  she 
put  all  the  friendship  and  gratitude  with  which  her 
heart  was  filled. 

There  were  also  more  substantial  joys.  They  had 
even  as  a  supreme  hope  a  chicken  tied  by  the  leg  in  a 
corner  of  the  room.  They  had  intended  fattening  it. 
Helia  dreamed  of  a  banquet  to  which  she  would  invite 
Poufaille  and  Suzanne;  but  the  chicken  was  not  ready. 
The  banquet  was  put  off,  and  the  day  now  came  when 
Helia  was  to  go  away. 

Phil  experienced  the  sadness  of  farewells  at  a  railway 
station  on  the  crowded  platform ;  there  was  the  grasping 
of  hands,  the  promises  to  write,  and  the  anguish  of  see- 
ing the  train  disappear  in  the  night. 

He  came  back  overcome  with  grief.  For  the  first 
time  the  poverty  of  his  room  overwhelmed  him;  the 
paper  falling  from  the  walls,  his  sketches  fading  upon 


A  RUDE  AWAKENING  101 

them,  all  was  somber  and  desolate  in  spite  of  the  flowers 
on  the  table  and  the  curtains  at  the  window. 

He  had  never  noticed  it  before,  for  Helia's  presence 
had  absorbed  him  wholly.  Now  he  realized  that  he  was 
living  in  an  attic  and  he  blushed  at  his  poverty. 

Was  he  to  fritter  away  his  life  in  this  way?  How 
could  he— man  that  he  was— endure  this?  With  all  his 
desire  he  had  not  been  able  to  keep  in  Paris  the  young 
girl  he  loved— to  tear  her  from  her  wandering  life  and 
marry  her.  He,  so  free  and  strong,  could  not  rid  himself 
of  these  bonds  of  poverty?  He  swore  that  he  would  be 
free  even  though  he  should  kill  himself  with  work. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE   END   OF   THE   GUITAR 

ONE  effort  and  then  another,  and  little  by  little 
Phil   freed  himself.     So   far  his  health  could 
stand  it.  He  had  glimpses  of  better  days.  Along 
with  his  will  his  talent  also  grew  strong.    His  progress 
was  rapid;  step  by  step  he  mounted  upward;  and  the 
horizon  grew  wider  before  him. 

The  day  when  it  was  certain  that  Phil  would  have  his 
Salon  medal,  Socrate  drank  off  his  absinthe  savagely 
and  declared: 

"That  fellow  is  lost!" 

In  a  few  words  he  put  the  case  before  the  comrades. 

Phil,  the  Phil  they  had  known  as  such  a  "seeker," 
with  so  much  personality,  was  knuckling  down !  He 
was  turning  bourgeois — he  was  going  to  have  his  medal ! 
In  other  words,  he  was  down  on  his  knees  to  tickle  the 
soles  of  the  feet  of  the  old  bonzes  of  the  Academy ! 

"That  's  no  artist!  not  what  I  call  an  artist!"  Socrate 
went  on.  And  it  was  plain  from  the  fashion  in  which 
Socrate  ordered  another  absinthe  that  he,  at  least,  would 
never  come  to  terms!  Good  old  Poufaille  was  dumb' 
with  admiration. 

"What  a  pity  Phil  's  not  here!"  he  thought. 
102 


• 


'  Only  piit  your  soul  into  it ! ' " 


THE  END  OF   THE   GUITAR  105 

A  few  days  later  he  ran  across  Phil,  who  looked  tired. 

"You  're  lost,  you  know ;  you  're  in  a  bad  way !"  Pou- 
faille  said  to  him  as  soon  as  he  saw  him;  and  he  added 
mysteriously:  "You  ought  to  go  to  see  Socrate— such  a 
wonderful  man,  mon  cher!" 

"Come  on,"  answered  Phil,  who  wanted  a  walk. 

They  found  Socrate  at  the  cafe,  smoking  his  pipe  and 
talking  art.  Half  hidden  in  a  cloud  of  smoke,  he  raised 
his  head  and  looked  at  Phil. 

"You  're  doing  things  that  please.  Look  out— take 
care !  You  ought  to  do  powerful  things !  Take  any 
subject  at  all— a  bottle,  a  pumpkin,  if  you  wish!  it 
doesn't  matter — only  put  your  soul  into  it!" 

"Put  my  soul  into  a  bottle!"  said  Phil,  amused. 

Socrate  did  not  admit  any  discussion  of  his  pronounce- 
ments, and  struck  Phil  dumb  with  a  glance. 

"I  tell  you,  you  must  paint  with  your  soul!" 

"But  I  always  do  my  best!"  Phil  said. 

"Peuh!  your  best!"  Socrate  had  an  expression  of 
unspeakable  pity  for  Phil's  best. 

Caracal  now  and  then  put  in  a  brief  appearance  at  the 
Deux  Magots,  looking  from  Phil  to  Socrate  and  laugh- 
ing to  himself. 

"Socrate  is  right ;  you  ought  to  do  high  art !  It  would 
be  very  funny— you  who  are  lucky  enough  to  be  the 
lover-" 

"What?"  cried  Phil. 

"  —  of  an  acrobat !  There  's  inspiration  for  you !  The 
trapeze  is  high  art;  it  soars— very  high!" 

' '  Another  word  and  I  '11  knock  you  down ! ' '  was  Phil 's 
answer. 


106  FATA  MORGANA 

"Calm  yourself,  mon  cher!  calm  yourself!" 

But  Phil  meanwhile  was  changing  visibly.  The  life  he 
had  been  leading  for  some  time  had  worn  him  out.  He 
now  worked  less  and  less,  and  came  more  and  more 
under  the  influence  of  Socrate.  He  expended  his  energy 
at  the  cafe,  and  in  his  turn  traced  out  masterpieces  on 
the  table.  He  explained  his  ideas  to  Socrate,  and  dis- 
cussed them  until  the  landlord  turned  out  the  gas  and 
wiped  off  the  masterpieces  with  his  napkin. 

"Phil  will  go  far!"  Socrate  said  as  he  clapped  him 
on  the  shoulder,  adding  like  a  truly  superior  man : 

"You  haven't  twenty  francs  about  you?" 

One  day  Socrate  brought  with  him,  wrapped  up  in 
a  newspaper,  an  object  which  he  laid  on  the  bench. 

"My  guitar,"  he  said. 

Socrate 's  guitar!  Every  one  was  acquainted  with  it. 
Socrate,  painter-poet-philosopher,  was  a  musician  as 
well.  He  "heard  colors"  and  "saw  sounds."  He  had 
undertaken  a  gigantic  work — to  set  the  Louvre  to  music 
and  make  colors  perceptible  to  the  ear. 

He  took  notes  on  the  spot,  colored  photographs,  and 
then  came  home  and  played  them  on  his  guitar  with  the 
hand  of  a  genius.  Violet  was  si;  he  made  sol  out  of 
blue ;  green  was  a  fa— and  so  on  up  to  red,  which  was 
do. 

Phil  looked  at  the  guitar  with  respect;  and  Socrate 
had  an  idea. 

"Tiens!"  he  said  with  a  noble  air;  "take  my  guitar. 
It  has  sounded  the  'Mona  Lisa'— it  has  played  Rubens 
and  Raphael !  It  has  thrilled  with  beauty ;  it  contains 
the  Louvre !  My  soul  has  vibrated  within  it !  Do  a 


THE   END  OF   THE   GUITAR  107 

masterpiece  with  it !  Show  on  your  canvas  all  that  it 
holds !  Take  it !  Carry  it  away  with  you ! ' ' 

And  Phil  had  taken  away  the  guitar. 

"All  right,"  he  said  the  next  day,  "I  will  do  a  mas- 
terpiece. They  shall  see  if  I  am  an  artist  or  a  pork- 
packer." 

He  resolved  to  ' '  hatch  a  masterpiece ' '  from  this  guitar 
which  had  thrilled  with  the  soul  of  Socrate.  From  that 
time  he  went  out  no  longer.  He  passed  whole  days  in 
his  room,  distracted  only  by  the  cackling  of  the  chicken 
in  its  corner,  that  brought  him  back  to  the  realities  of 
life. 

"Ah,  ha!  You  're  hungry,  are  you?"  he  said,  as  he 
threw  the  chicken  some  crumbs.  Then  he  looked  at  the 
guitar  as  if  he  would  say:  "We  '11  have  it  out  together!" 

Phil  struggled.  He  dreamed  and  pondered,  and 
hunted  all  sorts  of  material  for  his  sketches.  He  went 
to  the  Louvre  to  study  pictures  that  had  guitars  in  them. 

"The  old  masters  knew  nothing  about  guitars,"  Phil 
said  one  evening  at  the  cafe.  Even  the  comrades  laughed 
at  this. 

"How  's  the  guitar?    Does  it  go?"  they  asked  him. 

They  spoke  only  of  guitars — guitar  this  and  guitar 
that— as  if  all  the  estudiantinas  of  all  the  Spains  had 
met  together  at  the  Deux  Magots. 

"It  will  drive  me  crazy!"  said  Phil. 

"You  will  produce  a  masterpiece,"  replied  Socrate. 

One  evening  Phil  came  in  radiant.  "I  have  it!"  he 
cried. 

He  explained  his  idea.  Women  had  been  painted  in 
the  moonlight,  in  the  sunlight,  and  in  the  light  of  flames. 


108  FATA  MORGANA 

Eh  bien!  he,  Phil,  would  light  his  woman  with  reflections 
from  a  guitar! 

"You  see,  I  have  a  woman's  head  in  shadow,"  Phil 
explained  to  Socrate,  as  he  made  lines  with  his  pencil 
on  the  table;  "and  the  guitar  itself  is  lighted  up  by  a 
ray  from  heaven— do  you  understand?  Music,  an  echo 
of  heaven,  enlightens  our  sad  humanity!" 

' '  Bravo ! ' '  exclaimed  Socrate. 

Poufaille,  in  his  emotion,  pressed  Phil's  hand. 

"I  '11  give  you  a  write-up ! ' '  said  Caracal ;  ' ' something 
really  good."  But  he  added  to  himself:  "So  you  're 
painting  echoes  from  heaven,  pork-packer  that  you 
are!" 

Phil,  under  the  guidance  of  Socrate,  began  his  picture. 
It  was  hard  to  set  himself  again  to  real  work  after  so 
many  months  of  doing  nothing.  He  exhausted  his 
strength  and  spirits  over  his  canvas.  He  ate  next  to 
nothing  and  grew  thin  visibly ;  he  lived  merely  a  life  of 
the  brain. 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  have  a  great  success  and  get 
rich,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  would  have  Helia  come 
back!" 

He  wrote  long  letters  to  her.  Helia 's  replies  breathed 
love  and  the  lofty  confidence  she  had  in  him.  At  the 
bottom  of  the  page  there  was  always  a  circle  traced  with 
a  pen,  and  to  this  he  touched  his  lips. 

It  was  Helia  whom  he  was  painting  in  the  background 
of  his  picture — a  Helia  illuminated  by  a  strange  light 
like  a  vision. 

But  Phil,  worn  out  and  bloodless,  no  longer  had  the 
strength  to  fix  her  features  on  canvas.  He  was  all  the 


THE   END  OF  THE  GUITAR  109 

time  beginning  over  again,  floundering  in  his  powerless- 
ness. 

Every  now  and  then  Socrate  came  to  see  him  and 
borrowed  his  last  piece  of  money:  "You  haven't  five 
francs  about  you? — and  this  old  overcoat,  lend  it  to  me 
till  to-morrow ! 

"Tiens!  a  chicken!"  Socrate  went  on,  continuing  his 
inspection;  and  he  winked  at  Phil  and  made  a  gesture 
of  wringing  the  fowl's  neck — "like  that!  couic!"  Then 
he  looked  at  the  picture. 

"It  doesn't  go,"  Socrate  said,  rubbing  his  hands. 

At  other  times  the  picture  seemed  to  go  better. 

"Look  out!  You're  going  too  fast!"  Socrate  said, 
in  a  fright  at  the  idea  that  his  guitar  might  be  brought 
back  to  him  and  that  he  might  no  longer  have  a  pretext 
to  come  and  borrow  five  francs  or  an  overcoat.  Suzanne 
also  paid  Phil  visits.  He  often  spoke  to  her  of  Helia. 

"You  're  always  thinking  about  her!"  Suzanne  said, 
as  she  lighted  a  cigarette,  taking  two  or  three  puffs  and 
throwing  it  away  with  a  pouah! 

"Well,  you  must  be  in  love  with  Helia!"  she  contin- 
ued. "I  had  no  idea  of  it!  It  won't  last,  mon  cher!" 

She  looked  at  him  with  mocking  eyes. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Phil  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  offend  you,  Monsieur  Phil.  I 
believe  you  're  sincere!" 

"You  think  I  'm  sincere!" 

"My  dear  Phil,  I  've  seen  men  dragging  themselves 
at  my  knees,— do  you  hear?  dragging  themselves  at  my 
knees  with  tears  in  their  eyes, — men  who  would  n't  look 
at  me  now ! ' ' 


110  FATA  MORGANA 

"I  'm  not  that  kind,"  said  Phil. 

"So  much  the  better!"  said  Suzanne,  becoming  sud- 
denly grave.  "I  'm  happy  for  Helia's  sake — very 
happy,  because  she  thinks  so,  too ! ' ' 

Phil  took  up  his  palette;  but  Suzanne  could  not  stay 
quiet. 

"Say,  Monsieur  Phil,  how  good  you  are,  all  the  same !" 

"I?     Why?" 

"You  don't  see  they  're  making  fun  of  you?" 

"Who?" 

"Why,  Caracal's  set— Socrate  among  the  rest,"  Su- 
zanne answered. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  Phil  said.  "Socrate  is  an  en- 
thusiast, but  he  's  a  real  artist ! ' ' 

"Penses-tu,  bebe!"  Suzanne  murmured  to  herself. 
Then,  passing  before  the  glass,  with  a  twist  of  her  finger 
she  put  a  lock  of  hair  in  place  and  went  out. 

Phil  seldom  had  such  visits.  For  the  most  part  of 
the  time  he  was  alone  in  front  of  his  picture  which  did 
not  go.  There  was  no  end  to  his  fumbling  efforts.  There 
were  always  parts  to  be  done  over — and  he  never  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  them  right. 

Socrate  arrived  one  fine  evening  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"I  'm  coming  to  live  with  you!"  he  said.  "Land- 
lords are  idiots,  on  my  word !  Talent  and  thought  never 
count  with  them.  It  's  dough  they  want.  If  it  were  n't 
for  you  I  'd  have  to  sleep  out  of  doors!" 

He  sat  down  on  a  chair  and  added:  "You  're  will- 
ing?" 

"Certainly,"  Phil  said,  as  he  drew  a  mattress  near  the 


THE  END  OF  THE  GUITAR  111 

stove.  ' '  You  can  sleep  there  for  the  present.  We  '11  see 
later  on." 

From  that  day  an  infernal  life  began  for  Phil.  So- 
crate,  stretched  out  by  the  stove,  worried  him  with  advice 
and  made  him  begin  the  same  thing  twenty  times  over; 
he  encumbered  the  room,  smoking  like  a  locomotive  or 
sleeping  until  noon.  When  the  thinker's  ferocious 
snoring  quite  deafened  Phil,  he  would  whistle  gently  to 
stop  it.  But  a  steamer's  siren  would  not  have  awakened 
Socrate.  Then  Phil,  in  his  exasperation,  would  shake 
him  by  the  shoulder. 

"Let  me  be!  I  am  thinking  of  something— hum- 
something,"  Socrate  would  stammer;  and  the  sleeper 
would  begin  "thinking"  again.  It  was  a  continual  tor- 
ture. Phil,  moreover,  was  so  weak  that  he  cauld  not  even 
get  angry. 

One  morning  Suzanne  came  in  with  her  arms  loaded 
down  with  mistletoe  and  packages.  "My  friends,  to- 
morrow is  Christmas  day,"  she  said,  as  she  entered. 

"Ah!"  Phil  answered. 

"What — ah?"  Suzanne  took  him  up.  "Didn't  you 
know  it,  then  ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  Phil,  who  was  now  only  a  shadow  of  him- 
self, living  on  mechanically  from  day  to  day. 

"But  didn't  you  see,"  asked  Suzanne,  "this  pretty 
Christmas  card  that  Helia  sent  you  from  London?" 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Phil;  "true!" 

"Phil  is  sick,"  thought  Suzanne,  "and  very  sick! 
He  's  losing  his  memory.  It  's  high  time  that  Helia 
came  back!" 

"Let   me    prepare   the    feast,"    she   said   next    day. 


112  FATA  MORGANA 

''You'll  see  what  it  will  be!  Men  don't  understand 
such  things !  Phil,  let  me  do  it,  will  you  ?  I  've  invited 
Poufaille.  We  shall  be  four  at  table.  There  is  a  fork 
for  each  of  us!" 

"I  don't  eat  much,"  Phil  answered. 

"Socrate  will  eat  for  you,  Monsieur  Phil,"  said  Su- 
zanne. She  added:  "I  have  a  favor  to  ask  you  first:  I 
don't  want  you  to  kill  the  chicken!" 

"But  we  shall  have  nothing  else  for  the  meal,"  said 
Phil. 

"Oh,  Monsieur  Phil,  let  her  live!  She  's  so  amusing! 
She  would  follow  me  in  the  street,  and  people  would  take 
her  for  a  dog.  But  wouldn't  they  laugh!" 

' '  What  a  child  you  are ! ' '  Phil  said. 

' '  And  then  I  '11  like  you  so  much  for  it,  and  I  '11  make 
you  a  nice  salad,"  Suzanne  went  on,  "and  I  '11  get 
four  sous'  worth  of  fried  potatoes." 

"Granted!" 

Just  then  they  heard  a  couic,  and  Socrate  threw  the 
chicken  with  its  neck  wrung  at  the  feet  of  Suzanne. 

"Enough  sentimentality,"  he  said. 

Seeing  the  turn  things  were  taking,  Socrate,  who  was 
not  willing  to  miss  his  meal,  had  slyly  stretched  out  his 
hand,  seized  the  chicken,  and  put  an  end  to  it. 

"Oh,  you  wretch!"  cried  Suzanne. 

"Bah!  the  chicken  had  to  end  by  being  eaten,"  Phil 
said;  "let  's  not  quarrel  for  that!" 

Suzanne  made  everything  ready.  She  cleared  the 
table  of  paints  and  palette,  spread  the  cloth  and  dishes 
deftly,  and  sang  as  she  did  the  cooking.  Poufaille  came 
in,  bringing  a  cheese  made  of  goat's  milk  and  garlic 
which  he  had  received  that  morning  from  his  village. 


He  encumbered  the  room1 


THE  END  OF  THE   GUITAR  115 

"What  smells  like  that?    Pouah!"  Suzanne  cried 

"Do  you  mean  my  cheese?"  said  Poufaille,  in  a 
pet. 

The  time  had  come.  With  emotion  Suzanne  placed  the 
chicken  on  the  table. 

"Your  chicken  isn't  cooked;  you're  not  much  on 
cooking!"  cried  Poufaille,  who  had  not  forgiven  the 
insult  to  his  cheese. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  cook,  don't  I?"  Suzanne  ex- 
claimed; "and  I  don't  understand  salads,  either?  No, 
perhaps,  hein!" 

Socrate,  with  his  nose  in  his  plate,  ate  like  an  ogre, 
disdainful  of  idle  quarrels. 

"The  salad?"  Phil  said,  to  keep  up  the  gaiety. 
"Your  salad  has  a  little  too  much  vinegar." 

"My  salad  spoiled— oh,  insolents!  It  's  worth  while 
taking  trouble  to  please  you!"  And  Suzanne  began 
weeping,  or  a  pretense  of  weeping.  But,  suddenly  los- 
ing her  temper,  she  seized  the  frying-pan  with  a  "Tiens! 
tiens,  done!  et  die  done!  This  will  teach  you!"  and 
while  chicken  and  salad  flew  across  the  floor,  bang!  she 
threw  the  pan  full  tilt  into  the  painted  guitar.  Phil's 
picture  was  rent  in  twain. 

"Oh,  forgive  me!"  Suzanne  cried. 

All  had  passed  as  quick  as  lightning.  Suzanne  was  at 
Phil's  knees,  weeping,  begging  pardon— oh!  how  could 
she  have  done  it,  she  who  knew  all  the  trouble  he  had 
taken?  And  she  kept  on  repeating  in  her  despair:  "Oh, 
Phil,  forgive  me!" 

Phil  said  not  a  word ;  he  was  pale  as  death.  Poufaille 
had  fallen  backward,  and,  sitting  on  his  cheese,  which 


116  FATA   MORGANA 

had  fallen  under  him,  looked  in  turn  at  Phil  and  Su- 
zanne. Socrate  was  thunderstruck. 

' '  Oh,  forgive  me,  Phil,  forgive  me ! ' '  Suzanne  went 
on  repeating. 

But  she  did  not  finish.  To  her  terror,  she  saw  Phil 
arise,  turn,  and  fall  headlong. 


CHAPTER  IX 

ALAS  !  POOR  HELIA  ! 

PHIL  had  been  struck  down  by  a  rush  of  blood  to 
the  brain.  For  a  long  time  he  had  been  living  as 
in  a  dream.  His  fits  of  absent-mindedness  had  al- 
ready amazed  Suzanne.   Too  artificial  a  life,  constant  ex- 
asperation, his  fierce  persistence  at  work  which  was  be- 
yond his  present  strength,  and  the  ravages  of  a  fixed  idea 
had  prepared  him   for  brain-fever.     The   ruin  of  his 
guitar  picture  was  the  last  blow. 

Suzanne  quickly  drove  Socrate  out  of  the  room,  and 
took  the  mattress  which  was  lying  on  the  floor  and  put 
it  back  in  its  place.  She  hastily  made  the  bed,  and  then, 
with  the  help  of  Poufaille,  placed  Phil  on  it.  He  was 
still  without  motion,  pale  and  bloodless,  like  a  dead 
man. 

Suzanne  ran  to  the  Charite  Hopital.  She  was  ac- 
quainted with  some  of  the  young  hospital  doctors,  and 
she  explained  the  case  as  well  as  she  could.  One  of 
them  followed  her  to  Phil's  studio  and  made  a  long  ex- 
amination of  him.  A^soon  as  he  entered  the  disordered 
room  with  its  tale  of  want,  the  young  doctor  understood 
all;  he  had  already  cared  for  victims  like  this  of  the 
ideal. 

117 


118  FATA  MORGANA 

Phil  came  back  to  life  and  moaned  feebly. 

"He  is  not  dead!"  Suzanne  said. 

" People  don't  die  like  that!"  the  doctor  replied,  con- 
tinuing his  examination.  "Tell  me  how  it  happened." 

Suzanne  told  the  doctor  everything. 

"It  is  as  I  thought,"  he  said.  "We  '11  pull  him  out 
of  it.  But,  first  of  all,  take  away  all  those  canvases— 
put  the  room  in  order;  and  those  portraits  of  a  young 
girl,  always  the  same  one,  there  along  the  wall — take 
them  all  away !  You  must  deliver  him  from  that  vision 
when  he  comes  back  to  himself!" 

"But  he  can't  live  without  her,"  Suzanne  said. 

The  doctor  smiled  sadly. 

"If  he  only  remembers  her!"  he  murmured.  "No 
lesion;  long  overdoing  followed  by  anemia,  too  strong 
emotion,  and  doubtless  some  fixed  idea,"  the  young  doc- 
tor rambled  on  as  he  looked  at  the  portraits  of  Helia 
which  Poufaille  was  taking  down.  "It  's  a  kind  of 
intoxication  of  the  nervous  system— a  railway  brain,  as 
it  were ;  we  '11  give  him  things  to  build  him  up,  and  rest 
and  silence  in  the  meantime." 

"Doc — doctor!"  Poufaille  stammered,  livid  with  fear, 
"is  the  disease  catching?" 

"No  fear!"  the  doctor  answered,  as  he  glanced  at  the 
hairy  face  of  Poufaille,  with  its  crimson  health.  "It 
only  comes  from  exaggerated  intellectual  functions." 

"Oh,  I  'm  better  already!"  said  Poufaille,  reassured. 

Phil  was  delirious  for  a  week. 

His  mind,  sunk  in  abysses  of  sleep,  made  obscure  ef- 
forts to  come  back  to  the  light  of  day.  Sometimes  an 
ocean  of  forgetfulness  rolled  him  in  its  waves.  Some- 


ALAS!   POOR  HELIA!  119 

times  great  flashes  of  light  illuminated  his  consciousness 
in  its  least  details  and  gave  to  his  dreams  the  hard  relief 
of  marble. 

Oftenest  he  simply  wandered,  mingling  Helia  and 
Suzanne,  seeing  in  his  nightmare  guitars,  yellow  on  one 
side  and  blue  on  the  other,  like  worlds  lighted  up  at  once 
by  sun  and  moon— a  whole  skyful  of  guitars,  amid 
which,  motionless,  the  skull  of  the  poet-painter-sculptor- 
musician  thought  constantly,  never  sleeping — until  the 
thought  burned  like  a  red-hot  iron,  and  then  Phil  put  his 
hand  to  his  own  burning  forehead  and  asked  for  some- 
thing to  drink. 

But  there  was  some  one  to  anticipate  his  wish.  A 
gentle  hand  raised  his  head  on  the  pillow  and  an  anx- 
ious face  bent  over  him,  seeking  to  read  his  eyes,  now 
dulled,  and  now  brilliant  with  the  light  of  fever. 

"Is  it  Helia?  "Phil  asked. 

"It  is  I!"  Helia  answered.  "Don't  speak— rest! 
You  must  rest!" 

Yes,  Helia  had  come  back.  Suzanne,  in  her  belief 
that  Phil  was  on  the  point  of  dying,  had  not  been  able 
to  resist  the  impulse  to  write  to  her.  It  did  not  occur 
to  Helia  to  ask  if  the  disease  was  catching.  She  gave  up 
everything.  She  paid  her  forfeit,  took  her  leave  of  ab- 
sence, her  own  good  money  going  to  pay  another  attrac- 
tion as  a  substitute.  Nearly  all  her  savings  went  in  this 
way — but  she  heeded  itynot.  Nothing  in  the  world  would 
have  held  her  back.  She  had  to  be  with  Phil.  She  alone 
had  the  right  to  tend  him.  Another  with  her  own  be- 
trothed in  time  of  danger  ?  No ! 

Helia  nursed  him  night  and  day.     Suzanne  helped 


120  FATA   MORGANA 

her,  and  Poufaille  did  the  errands,  going  for  food  to 
Mere  Michel 's  and  for  scuttles  of  coal  to  the  ckarbonnier. 
From  morning  to  night  his  heavy  shoes  shook  the  stair- 
case. 

"Why  don't  you  give  him  wine?"  he  said,  as  he 
looked  at  the  sick  man. 

"Why  not  goat's-milk  cheese?"  retorted  Suzanne. 
"Will  you  keep  silence,  grand  nigaudf  Go  and  get 
some  wood ! ' ' 

' '  And  the  money  to  buy  it  with  ? ' ' 

"Here!"  Helia  said. 

With  what  joy  Helia  watched  Phil's  progress  toward 
health ! 

"Dear,  dear  friend,  my  little  Saint  John,"  Phil  said 
to  her.  "How  can  I  ever  thank  you  for  all  you  are 
doing -for  me !" 

He  kissed  her  hand  or  put  it  to  his  burning  forehead. 
Once  he  rose  up  and  looked  around  the  room  saying: 
"Who  is  there?" 

"It  is  I-Helia!" 

"Who  is  Helia?" 

"Helia,  your  friend — your  Helia;  I  am  here  with  Su- 
zanne ! ' ' 

"Out,  wretches!"     And  he  fell  back  exhausted. 

"Leave  him  alone,"  said  the  young  doctor.  "In  a 
fortnight  he  will  be  on  his  feet  and  I  '11  send  him  to 
the  country." 

Helia,  who  was  forced  to  depart,  went  away.  Her 
leave  was  over.  Besides,  she  had  no  more  money.  Phil 
grew  better  and  better.  At  first  he  was  surprised  to  find 
his  room  so  changed. 


ALAS!    POOR  HELIA!  121 

"Where  are  my  pictures?"  he  asked.  "What  have 
you  done  with  them?" 

"We  've  put  them  one  side— you  can  see  them  later," 
answered  Suzanne. 

"What  were  they  about?"  inquired  Phil.  "Anyway, 
it  's  all  the  same  to  me!" 

The  young  doctor,  with  the  good-fellowship  that  binds 
students  together,  accompanied  him  to  a  public  sanato- 
rium not  far  from  Paris.  From  that  moment  Phil 
changed  visibly.  He  who  had  been  so  anemic  in  the 
vitiated  atmosphere  of  his  studio,  with  his  nose  always 
over  his  oils  and  colors,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  canvas, 
in  Socrate's  company,  had  now  abundance  of  pure  air 
and  walks  through  the  open  fields.  He  felt  himself 
reborn,  although  his  head  was  a  little  empty  and  his 
body  stiff  and  sore  like  one  just  taken  from  the  torture- 
rack.  But  good  food  and  quiet  did  wonders  for  him. 
He  had  an  excellent  constitution,  made  for  work  and 
struggle,  and  it  came  up  again. 

With  a  beefsteak  an  idea  would  arrive;  and  with  a 
glass  of  wine  joy  entered  his  heart.  His  blood,  renewed, 
gave  him  new  feelings.  He  had  again  become  a  man, 
after  the  illness  in  which  his  youth  had  been  ship- 
wrecked. 

Helia,  anxious  to  see^him,  came  back  one  day.  How 
difficult  it  had  been  for  her — slave  to  her  profession  as 
she  was,  and  still  bound  to  it  for  many  months !  Never 
mind— she  came !  Phil  was  better,  Phil  was  cured.  She 
would  have  his  first  smile ;  he  would  be  her  Phil  in  health 
as  in  sickness.  But  at  the  gate  of  the  sanatorium  a  mag- 
nificent guardian,  adorned  with  brass  buttons  and  a 


122  FATA  MORGANA 

gilt-banded  cap,  stopped  her.  It  was  society  closing  its 
doors  to  the  intrusion  of  vagabonds.  This  man  of  law 
and  order  asked  Helia  why,  how,  in  whose  name,  by  what 
right,  she  wished  to  see  Phil,  and  he  refused  the  favor  to 
her,  the  mountebank  who — had  one  ever  seen  the  like? — 
pretended  to  be  his  betrothed! 

Phil  came  back  to  Paris  cured.  Strength  and  the 
daring  of  courage  returned  with  him.  His  long  rest 
seemed  to  have  increased  his  energy  tenfold.  He  went 
forth  from  his  past  as  one  escapes  from  a  prison,  without 
even  looking  backward.  The  young  doctor  had  guessed 
only  too  truly :  Phil  had  forgotten  many  things ! 

Phil,  who  had  received  some  unexpected  money  from 
his  uncle  in  Virginia,  now  changed  his  quartier,  and  set 
himself  up  in  better  style;  and  the  Salon  medal  gave 
him  his  start.  His  professor  made  him  acquainted  with 
the  Duke  of  Morgania,  who  ordered  from  him  the  great 
decorative  picture  of  Morgana.  The  Comtesse  de  Don- 
jeon  asked  his  aid  for  her  charity  sale. 

One  effort  and  then  another,  and  this  time  Phil  would 
reach  the  goal.  He  had  one  of  those  happy  dispositions 
which  attract  luck  as  the  magnet  attracts  iron  filings. 
He  was  ready ;  life  was  open  before  him  like  slack  water 
at  sea ;  there  was  only  wanting  to  him  a  good  breeze  to 
swell  his  sail. 

From  what  side  was  it  to  blow  ? 


"A  magnificent  guardian  stopped  her 


CHAPTER  X 

MISS  ETHEL  ROWRER  OF   CHICAGO 

THE  breeze  blew  from  the  West. 
Miss  Ethel  Bowrer,  daughter  of  the  great  Red- 
mount  Rowrer,  had  just  arrived  in  Paris.  She 
was  preceded  by  the  fame  of  her  father,  the  famous  Chi- 
cagoan,  a  business  Napoleon.  From  his  office,  the  center 
of  a  network  of  telegraph  and  telephone  lines,  he  com- 
municated with  the  financial  universe ;  and  his  tremen- 
dous toil  was  building  up  a  world-wide  fortune.  He 
thought  himself  poor,  for  he  had  not  yet  reached  the 
billion  mark;  but  his  fame  grew.  Ethel  adored  this 
father.  She  was  proud  that  men  spoke  of  him.  She 
felt  herself  a  part  in  his  glory;  but,  really,  she  could 
have  wished  people  should  pay  less  attention  to  herself. 
Every  day  the  society  papers  devoted  space  to  her. 

"Yesterday  evening,  Miss  Ethel  Rowrer,  daughter  of 
the  famous  milliardai^  was  present  at  the  opera"— and 
so  forth;  and  there  followed  a  description  of  her  dress. 

"To-morrow,  Miss  Ethel  Rowrer,  daughter  of  the  fa- 
mous milliardaire,  accompanied  by  her  grandmother, 
will  be  present  at  the  horse  show." 

They  told  how  she  passed  her  day ;  people  learned  that 
she  had  tried  on  gowns  at  Paquin's,  chosen  a  hat  at 
125 


126  FATA  MORGANA 

Stagg's,  eaten  chocolates  at  Marquis's — while  in  reality 
she  had  stayed  at  home  with  "grandma." 

All  this  gossip  annoyed  her.  One  day,  however,  she 
laughed  heartily.  She  learned  from  a  paper  her  inten- 
tion of  buying  the  tomb  of  Richard  the  Lion-hearted  to 
make  a  bench  of  it  in  her  hall  at  Chicago.  This  earned 
for  Ethel  a  newspaper  article,  grave  and  patriotic. 

' '  Foreigners,  touch  not  our  illustrious  dead ! ' '  was  the 
journalist's  conclusion  in  the  evening  "Tocsin." 

Richard  the  Lion-hearted  went  the  rounds  of  the  head- 
lines of  the  Paris  yellow  press.  Then,  one  fine  day,  the 
papers  spoke  of  an  interview  of  the  ex-Empress  Eugenie 
with  Miss  Ethel  Rowrer,  daughter  of  the  famous  milliar- 
daire,  R.  K.  Rowrer.  Vieillecloche,  in  his  "Tocsin," 
had  seen  and  heard  everything.  He  accused  America 
of  mixing  itself  up  with  French  politics.  Miss  Ethel 
did  not  read  the  article,  otherwise  she  might  have  gath- 
ered that  the  "Tocsin"  was  very  ill-informed.  That 
she  had  seen  the  empress  was  true,  but  there  had  been 
no  word  of  politics. 

The  empress  was  making  a  short  stay  in  Paris,  as  she 
did  every  year.  Her  sorrows  had  given  the  former  sov- 
ereign the  love  of  retirement.  She  passed  her  days  by 
her  window  at  the  hotel,  sometimes  looking  sadly  toward 
the  empty  place  where  the  Tuileries  had  been. 

"I  see  by  the  paper  that  Miss  Ethel  Rowrer  is  in 
Paris,"  the  empress  said  one  day  to  her  dame  de  com- 
pagnie.  "Is  it  the  granddaughter  of  the  Rowrer  I 
knew  ?  The  emperor  had  great  esteem  for  him ;  I  re- 
member him  well.  Mr.  Rowrer  was  charged 'by  the  gov- 
ernment at  Washington  with  a  report  on  the  Exposition 


MISS  ETHEL  ROWRER  OF   CHICAGO          127 

of  1867.  My  husband  loved  to  look  into  everything 
himself.  Social  questions  were  near  to  his  heart,  and  it 
happened  that  in  the  evenings  he  would  receive  Mr. 
Rowrer  in  his  private  cabinet.  The  extreme  simplicity 
and  moral  robustness  of  the  man  struck  the  emperor. 
He  found  him  full  of  new  ideas  which  he  would  have 
wished  to  apply  in  France.  I  was  present  at  one 
of  their  conversations.  My  little  son  was  playing 
around  them.  Ma  chere  ami,"  Eugenie  continued,  "I 
remember  it  as  if  it  were  yesterday.  I  beg  of  you  to  find 
out  if  Miss  Rowrer  is  the  granddaughter  of  that  man." 
The  next  day  she  learned  that  this  was  the  fact. 

"I  should  have  been  astonished  if  it  were  not  so," 
said  Eugenie.  "The  emperor  foresaw  the  success  of 
Mr.  Rowrer;  he  knew  men."  She  at  once  made  known 
to  Miss  Rowrer  that  she  would  be  happy  to  receive  her ; 
and  Ethel  came.  Entering,  she  saw  but  one  thing:  in 
an  arm-chair  by  the  window  a  lady,  with  her  head 
covered  by  a  black  mantilla,  sat  in  the  clear  sunlight 
like  a  dark  figure  of  sorrow. 

"Madame,"  sai'd  the  lady  in  waiting,  "I  present  to 
you  Miss  Ethel  Rowrer." 

Ethel  saw  the  dark  figure  rise  from  the  chair. 

"Thank  you  for  coming !"  Eugenie  said.  "I  am  glad 
when  people  come  to  see  me,"  and  she  held  out  her  hand. 

Ethel  bore  the  hand  to  her  lips  and  bowed  with  a  grace 
which  charmed  Eugenie. 

"Be  seated,  Miss  Rowrer,"  said  the  empress;  "here, 
beside  me,"  and  she  pointed  with  the  slender  hand  of 
an  age,d  woman  to  a  seat. 

Ethel  sat  down.    She  was  in  the  presence  of  Eugenie 


128  FATA  MORGANA 

de  Guzman  and  Porto-Carrero,  Countess  of  Teba,  Mar- 
quise of  Mopa  and  Kirkpatrick,  Empress  of  the  French 
—Eugenie  the  beautiful,  the  beloved ;  and  it  was  an  old 
lady  warming  herself  in  the  sun  and  looking  around 
timidly. 

"How  happy  I  am,  madame,"  said  Ethel,  "to  thank 
you  for  the  kindnesses  shown  long  ago  to  my  grand- 
father! His  Majesty  the  Emperor  loaded  him  with 
favors. ' ' 

The  empress  was  greatly  touched  by  the  sincere  ac- 
cents of  Ethel  and  her  faithful  remembrance.  No  one 
thanked  her,  now  that  she  was  nothing ;  and  this  daugh- 
ter of  a  milliardaire  had  not  forgotten  slight  kindnesses 
done  long  ago  to  her  grandfather. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  said.  "The  emperor  had  great 
esteem  for  your  grandfather ;  he  liked  to  talk  with  him. 
Mr.  Rowrer  was  a  remarkable  man — rather,  he  was  a 
man!"  added  the  empress,  who  had  seen  so  many  who 
were  not  men. 

Ethel  blushed  with  pleasure.  Newspaper  head-lines 
constantly  made  sport  of  her  family,  and  here  was  the 
one-time  arbitress  of  Europe  glorifying  her  grandfather 
and  saying  to  her  "I  thank  you!" 

Then  they  chatted  for  a  while.  Eugenie  admired  this 
young  girl  in  her  simple  elegance  and  superb  health.  At 
the  court  itself  she  had  never  seen  a  figure  more  princess- 
like  and  radiant. 

"When  I  was  a  little  girl,"  Ethel  said,  "my  grand- 
father often  spoke  to  us  of  those  days  of  glory." 

At  the  word  "glory"  Eugenie  interrupted  her. 

"Miss  Rowrer,"  she  said,  pointing  with  her  hand 


••- 


Miss  Kthel  and  Empress  Eugenie 


MISS  ETHEL  ROWRER  OF  CHICAGO          131 

toward  the  Tuileries,  "see  what  remains  of  it.  There 
is  nothing  left.  All  has  passed,  all  has  changed  around 
me.  This  was  once  my  Paris.  It  is  now  yours.  I  say 
yours,  for,  don't  you  see,  mademoiselle,  the  true  sover- 
eigns are  young  girls  like  you  with  their  grace  and 
health  ?  To  you  the  world  belongs.  Ah,  what  happiness 
it  is  to  be  young ! ' ' 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  The  dame  de  com- 
pagnie  was  arranging  flowers  in  a  vase.  The  empress 
sat  dreaming.  Did  she  see  again  the  eighteen  years  of 
power  wherein  she  held  in  her  hand  the  scepter  of 
France?  Or  the  palace  which  had  been  destroyed, 
crumbled  into  dust,  leaving  not  a  wrack  behind?  Did 
she  think  of  Miss  Rowrer,  to-day's  young  queen,  who 
came  to  pay  her  tribute  of  respect  to  the  royalty  of  other 
days?  of  the  conquering  force  which  this  young  girl 
represented,  the  supreme  outcome  of  an  ambitious  race? 
of  the  temptations  without  number  which  would  assail 
a  creature  so  spoiled  by  fate? 

Ethel  made  a  motion  to  take  her  leave.  The  empress 
rose  painfully. 

"Madame,"  EtKel  began. 

"Allow  me;  I  wish  to  accompany  you,"  Eugenie  in- 
sisted. "Your  visit  has  done  me  good." 

She  leaned  lightly  on  Miss  Rowrer 's  shoulder  as  she 
crossed  the  room. 

"Miss  Rowrer,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  a  great  secret," 
said  the  empress,  as  she  was  taking  leave ;  "but  one  must 
have  been  an  empress  to  appreciate  it  rightly.  It  is 
this:  remain  always  simple  and  artless  as  you  were  at 
fifteen.  That  is  the  secret  of  happiness;  there  is  no 


132  FATA  MORGANA 

other,  believe  me !  Adieu,  mademoiselle.  I  wish  you  all 
happiness  in  life." 

Ethel  retained  through  life  the  vision  of  this  woman 
in  her  mourning  garments,  with  the  white  hair  crowning 
her  forehead.  She  recalled  her  gentle  voice,  her  refined 
features — still  resembling  the  portraits  of  other  days,  but 
without  the  adorable  smile. 

"Our  people,"  Ethel  said  to  her  grandmother,  "in- 
terest themselves  only  in  Marie  Antoinette  and  the  Prin- 
cesse  de  Lamballe.  I  wish  to  make  a  collection  concern- 
ing the  Empress  Eugenie— photographs,  statuettes.  And 
I  will  take  back  to  Chicago  her  portrait  in  oils.  I  '11 
have  it  done  here  in  Paris  under  my  direction.  Who  is 
this  Phil  who,  they  say,  has  so  much  talent,  and  has 
painted  so  fine  a  portrait  for  the  Salon — a  young  girl 
seated  among  flowers  with  doves  around  her?  Cecilia 
Beaux  admires  it  immensely.  He  has  had  a  second 
medal,  I  believe — he  has  everything  he  needs  to  succeed ; 
and  he  is  an  American,  they  say,  and  poor  and  am- 
bitious." 

"He  is  poor  and  ambitious?  Give  him  a  chance," 
replied  grandma. 


CHAPTER  XI 

AN  APARTMENT  IN  THE  LATIN   QUARTER 

OTHING  remained  for  Ethel  but  to  meet  her  ar- 
tist.  An  opportunity  soon  offered  itself  at  the 
Comtesse  de  Don j eon's  five-o'clock  tea, at  which 
she  was  often  present. 

Ethel,  first  of  all,  had  looked  for  an  apartment  for 
her  own  convenience ;  the  hotel,  thanks  to  Vieillecloche, 
was  becoming  intolerable. 

"Foreigners,  stay  at  home!"  the  "Tocsin"  printed. 
"Remember  the  night  of  the  13th  March,  1871,  of 
the  day  of  November  22,  1876.  Respect  the  verdict 
of  the  363.  Tremble !  The  people  is  bristling  its  mane  of 
the  16th  May,  and^ares  its  claws  of  the  14th  July!" 

"We  'd  have  done  better  to  stay  in  Chicago,"  said 
grandma. 

At  first  the  torrent  of  carriages  and  automobiles  and 
bicycles  flowing  day  and  night  before  her  window  had 
amused  Ethel.  But  soon  she  tired  of  it.  There  were, 
indeed,  theaters  and  parks,  and  visits  to  dressmakers 
and  society  calls.  But  the  theaters  were  impossible,  the 
parks  were  only  parks  after  all,  the  visits  to  dressmakers 
were  anything  but  amusing— it  's  so  easy  to  buy!  and  as 
to  society,  Ethel  wished  to  rest  a  little— for  a  change! 

133 


134  FATA  MORGANA 

"To  speak  four  languages,  including  my  own,  to 
play  three  instruments,  including  the  harp,  which  only 
needs  passable  arms— all  that  doesn't  count.  I  must 
go  to  painting  again.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  have  a  picture 
on  the  line  and  a  Salon  medal !  I  wish  I  could  do  a  work 
on  La  Salle's  explorations,  at  the  Bibliotheque  Natio- 
nale !  What  would  I  not  give  to  write  like  Princess 
Troubetzkoi  or  paint  like  Cecilia  Beaux !  I  am  tired  of 
all  this  idleness.  I  wish  to  work ;  I  wish  to  be  something 
by  myself,  and  not  merely  the  daughter  of  papa.  I 
wish  that—  Grandma !  let  's  go  to  the  Latin  Quarter !  I 
will  be  just  a  student  girl  living  with  her  good  grand- 
mother while  she  studies  art!" 

"Let  's  go,  then,  to  the  Latin  Quarter,  Ethel,"  said 
grandma,  who  would  have  followed  Ethel  to  the  end  of 
the  world.  "We  shall  be  as  well  off  there  as  here— or 
let  's  go  back  to  America  if  you  wish;  for  my  part  I 
prefer  new  countries ! ' ' 

"But  the  Latin  Quarter  shall  be  new  for  you!  You 
shall  see  how  we  '11  amuse  ourselves, ' '  said  Ethel,  kissing 
her  grandmother. 

So  they  looked  for  a  place  in  the  Latin  Quarter.  They 
set  off  early,  and,  walking  under  the  great  trees  of  the 
Luxembourg,  or  leaning  on  the  balustrades,  looked  at 
the  palace  and  the  flower-beds  of  the  gardens. 

There  were  bare-legged  babies;  nurses  beribboned 
from  neck  to  heel ;  soldiers  in  red  trousers ;  a  priest  in  a 
black  gown;  gardeners  in  wooden  shoes;  young  girls 
without  hats;  students  with  hats  flat-brimmed;  every- 
thing gave  them  the  feeling  that  they  were  abroad,  far, 
far  away.  Such  specimens  of  the  pigmy  races  which 


AN  APARTMENT  IN  THE  LATIN   QUARTER  135 

vegetate  in  old  countries  amused  grandma,  and  the  gar- 
den pleased  her  greatly. 

"This  is  like  Douglas  Park— except  that  it  hasn't 
any  ornamental  mound.  Do  you  remember,  Ethel,  that 
globe  of  earth  with  continents  and  seas  colored  on  it  in 
different  flowers,  and  our  glorious  flag  made  of  white 
and  red  pinks  and  blue  corn-flowers?" 

"Oh,  grandma,  for  heaven's  sake!"  said  Ethel. 

"And  yet  it  's  not  bad  here,"  continued  grandma. 
"The  people  are  so  gay!  the  soldiers'  trousers  are  too 
short,  and  the  gardener  has  wooden  shoes;  but  they  look 
gay;  why,  I  wonder?" 

At  the  beginning  they  did  not  venture  into  the  Latin 
Quarter  without  some  emotion.  On  the  strength  of  what 
they  had  read  and  seen  at  the  theater  they  expected 
moss-grown  houses  with  flowers  in  the  windows,  and 
streets  resounding  with  song,  where  students  and  gri- 
settes  danced  the  cancan.  Grandma  soon  got  over  her 
mistake,  after  a  narrow  escape  from  being  crushed  by  a 
tram-car  in  a  thoroughfare  which  was  for  all  the  world 
like  State  Street. 

"It  's  not  so  bad  as  I  thought,"  she  said  enthusias- 
tically. "It  reminds  me  of  Chicago." 

In  their  visits  they  went  up  and  down  an  endless 
number  of  stairways.  Often  grandma  stayed  below, 
leaving  Ethel  to  visit  the  apartments. 

"Houses  without  elevators!"  said  grandma;  "Ethel 
must  be  crazy ! ' ' 

She  waited  for  Ethel  in  deep  courtyards  or  sat  in 
concierges'  lodges,  near  stoves  where  cabbage-soup  was 
bubbling.  More  than  once,  while  she  was  alone  in  the 


136  FATA  MORGANA 

lodge,  some  one  would  come  and  ask  information  from 
her,  taking  her  for  the  concierge.  Once  a  butcher's  boy, 
with  his  basket  of  meat  on  his  arm,  opened  the  door. 

"B'jour,  m'am;  what  will  M'am  Gibbon  have  to- 
day— culotte  de  veauf" 

But  he  ran  away  in  a  fright  at  the  sight  of  Mrs. 
Rowrer  staring  at  him  without  answering.  Such  inci- 
dents helped  grandma  to  pass  the  time. 

It  was  while  crossing  the  Rue  Servandoni  that  they 
at  last  found  their  apartment.  An  atmosphere  of  peace 
seemed  to  issue  forth  from  the  old  facade  with  its  im- 
mense windows.  By  the  open  door  they  could  see  a  wide 
stone  staircase  with  a  railing  of  wrought  iron.  A  great 
tree  shaded  the  silent  courtyard.  The  placard  was  out : 
"Apartment  to  Let."  So  they  entered.  The  apartment 
was  at  once  magnificent  and  simple,  all  in  white,  with 
lines  of  gold,  and  carved  doors  surmounted  by  painted 
panels. 

The  street  itself  had  a  certain  air  of  tranquil  distinc- 
tion. One  of  its  extremities  seemed  barred  by  the  austere 
walls  of  the  old  Luxembourg  Palace,  and  the  other  by 
the  enormous  apse  of  St.  Sulpice,  with  its  statue  of  St. 
Paul  upright  on  a  pedestal  between  two  columns. 

"My  favorite  saint!"  said  Ethel,  who  did  not  believe 
in  cold  and  passionless  perfection,  but  in  struggles  for 
the  best,  with  tears  undoing  faults.  "St.  Paul  himself 
keeps  guard  over  the  end  of  the  street!  How  happy 
we  shall  be  here,  grandma !  And  we  '11  heat  ourselves 
with  wood  fires  and  be  lighted  with  candles, ' '  she  added 
with  the  joy  of  a  child. 

"We  've  found  a  real  gem  of  an  apartment,"  Ethel 


AN  APARTMENT  IN  THE  LATIN  QUARTER  137 

said  to  the  Comtesse  de  Donjeon,  that  very  evening  at 
her  " five "-o 'clock,  which  was  at  four.  "Imagine,  ma- 
dame,  a  door  covered  with  carving,  through  which  you 
go  underneath  Medusa  heads  and  cornucopias.  We  shall 
burn  oil-lamps  and  candles;  that  will  make  us  wish 
to  wear  flounces  and  dress  our  hair  a  la  belle  poule — " 

"And  to  play  '11  pleut,  bergere'  on  a  spinet!"  the 
countess  interrupted.  "Where  did  you  discover  such  a 
gem  of  an  apartment!" 

"In  the  Rue  Servandoni,"  said  Ethel. 

"I  know,"  said  the  countess;  "it  's  near  St.  Sulpice. 
And,  by  the  way,  dear  Miss  Rowrer,  if  you  wish  any 
bric-a-brac  to  furnish  your  shelves,  I  can  recommend 
you  a  precious  man,  a  great  connoisseur  and  a  distin- 
guished critic,  a  journalist  of  the  good  cause— M.  Ca- 
racal." 

' '  Thank  you  so  much,  madame !  M.  Caracal  would 
be  very  useful  to  me,"  Miss  Rowrer  had  answered. 

"He  's  a  friend  43>f  the  Duke  of  Morgania  and  of  your 
fellow-countryman,  Mr.  Phil  Longwill,  whom  you  are 
acquainted  with,  perhaps." 

"Only  by  name,"  Ethel  said. 

"The  duke  and  Mr.  Longwill  are  coming  here  to-day, 
I  believe.  I  will  present  them  to  you  if  you  wish." 

They  were  in  the  great  salon  in  the  half-darkness  of 
the  silken  curtains.  Although  it  was  broad  daylight 
outside,  lighted  lamps  shed  a  yellow  glow  and  sparkled 
amid  the  glass  of  the  chandeliers  and  the  gold  frames 
of  paintings.  A  valet  announced  two  ladies— "Mme. 
and  Mile,  de  Grojean!"  The  countess  hastened  toward 
them. 


138  FATA  MORGANA 

Ethel  was  looking  vaguely  into  the  depths  of  the 
room.  Two  other  visitors  came  in,  talking  together  like 
friends. 

"His  Highness  the  Duke  of  Morgania. 

"Monsieur  Phil  Longwill!" 


CHAPTER  XII 
ETHEL'S  IDEA  OF  A  MAN 

AS  a  consequence  of  their  meeting,  Ethel  became 

l\  Phil 's  pupil.  Having  made  his  acquaintance  at  the 
-* — *•-  Comtesse  de Don jeon 's, she  gave  him  a  " chance," 
as  grandma  had  told  her  to  do.  She  ordered  from  him 
two  pictures  according  to  ideas  of  her  own :  first,  Eu- 
genie young  and  beautiful,  present  in  the  emperor's 
cabinet  at  the  reception  of  Rowrer,  the  grandfather; 
then  Miss  Rowrer  had  him  paint  Eugenie  aged  and 
broken,  seated  by  the  window  and  looking  far  away  on 
the  empty  Place  of  the  Tuileries.  Better  and  better 
satisfied,  she  ordere/fTfrom  him  grandma's  and  her  own 
portrait.  These  orders  were  enough  to  "launch"  Phil, 
as  they  say,  and  brought  him  other  orders  from  the 
society  frequented  by  Miss  Rowrer. 

Ethel,  before  she  came  to  Phil,  had  been  working  in 
the  Ecole  des  Beaux- Arts;  but  there  the  studio  seemed 
gloomy  to  her  and  she  stifled  in  it.  Moreover,  she  was 
already  rather  tired  of  the  Latin  Quarter  on  account 
of  her  fellow-countrymen  whom  she  met  there. 

She  had  a  grudge  against  some  of  them  for  imitating 
and  even  exaggerating  the  most  foolish  faults  of  a  cer- 
tain class  of  students.  She  did  not  approve  their  wear- 
ing their  hair  like  a  horse's  mane,  their  velvet  trousers 
139 


140  FATA  MORGANA 

and  knit-woolen  jackets,  and  their  way  of  carrying 
around  with  them  boxes  and  brushes  and  canvases  as  if 
they  were  sign-painters.  And  when  she  saw  them  seated 
on  the  curbstone  terrasses  before  cafes,  drinking  in  pub- 
lic and  spitting  everywhere  and  puffing  the  smoke  of 
their  cigarettes  into  the  faces  of  the  passers-by,  it  exas- 
perated her.  She  had  a  desire  to  call  out  to  them: 
1 '  Up !  and  go  to  work ! ' ' 

As  she  did  not  like  the  art  academies  of  the  Quarter, 
she  decided  for  Phil's  studio.  She  had  another  reason 
for  doing  this.  The  Ecole  des  Beaux- Arts  was  too  near, 
and  Ethel  needed  exercise.  In  spite  of  the  enormous 
distance  to  Phil's  studio,  she  always  went  to  it  on  foot — 
"to  keep  myself  in  training,"  she  said.  She  came  back 
the  same  way— to  give  herself  an  appetite.  Thus  every 
morning  she  had  four  hours'  work  and  two  hours'  walk 
— just  to  keep  "in  shape." 

Ethel,  one  morning,  was  at  the  studio  with  Mile. 
Yvonne  de  Grojean.  The  model's  rest  was  over  and 
they  were  beginning  work  again.  The  concierge — the 
old  man  "of  my  time"  and  former  inspector  of  the 
Louvre  roofs— mounted  the  table  and  posed  before  the 
girls  dressed  as  a  Louis  Quinze  marquis.  There  was  a 
pushing  about  of  easels  and  chairs,  palettes  were  taken 
up,  and  at  once  the  model  was  beset  with  remarks : 

"  Model -the  head!" 

"Model-thefoot!" 

"Model-smile!" 

At  this  formal  injunction  the  concierge  bridled  up, 
distorted  his  eyes,  twisted  his  lips,  and  swelled  out  his 
neck  like  a  goiter. 


ETHEL'S  IDEA  OF  A  MAN  141 

Ethel  and  Mile.  Yvonne  were  not  working  from  the 
Louis  Quinze  model.  Helia  posed  for  them  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  studio— the  corner  of  "still  life."  She  hap- 
pened to  be  free  that  morning,  as  the  figure  of  Morgana 
which  Phil  was  painting  from  her  was  nearly  finished. 
Helia  had  come  down  to  the  pupils'  studio  to  please 
Ethel,  who  greatly  desired  to  do  a  head  of  the  Madonna 
from  her. 

Ethel  and  Mile.  Yvonne  chatted  together  as  they 
added  touches  to  their  water-colors.  Ethel  was  relating 
to  her  friend,  Yvonne  de  Grojean,  the  visit  she  had  paid 
some  time  before  to  Phil's  private  studio,  where  she  had 
seen  the  Duke  of  Morgania.  She  had  also  described  the 
magnificent  decorative  painting  which  Phil  was  finish- 
ing for  the  duke. 

Their  conversation  was  punctuated  here  and  there  by 
the  remarks  cried  out  around  them  to  the  Louis  Quinze 
marquis : 

"Model-the  eye!" 

"Model— the  mouth!" 

"Really,"  said  Ethel,  "that  concierge  is  incorrigible. 
Why  does  he  persist  in  not  looking  like  the  students' 
drawings?" 

Mile,  de  Grojean  at  Ethel's  side  laughed  heartily. 

"How  droll  you  are!" 

Helia  smiled  in  spite  of  herself. 

"The  papers  keep  me  in  good  humor,"  Ethel  an- 
swered. "I  venture  there  's  something  in  them  again 
about  Richard  the  Lion-hearted,"  she  continued,  point- 
ing to  a  paper  on  the  chair.  "All  sorts  of  bargains  are 
offered  to  me  ever  since  that  story— usually  old  mum- 


142  FATA  MORGANA 

mies.  No;  there  is  nothing  about  Richard  to-day," 
Ethel  remarked,  as  she  ran  through  the  head-lines.  But 
she  received  her  "pin-prick"  all  the  same.  In  an  open 
letter  some  one  attacked  American  society  and  the  lack 
of  solidity  in  its  family  ties — signed,  "H.  Ochsenmaul- 
salatsf abrikant. "  This  annoyed  Miss  Rowrer  more  than 
personal  attack.  She  was  amazed  that  people  could  have 
such  thoughts  about  her  country. 

"In  your  country,"  was  the  conclusion  of  the  Salats- 
f abrikant,  "the  young  men  run  after  money  and  the 
young  women  after  titles." 

"Personally  I  had  the  idea  that  titles  were  running 
after  me,"  thought  Ethel,  who  had  had  reasons  for  be- 
lieving so  during  the  three  months  in  which  the  duke 
had  been  paying  her  court. 

She  had  already  forgotten  the  open  letter,  but  she 
kept  on  thinking  of  the  subject  it  had  started  up  in  her 
mind. 

Ah,  certainly  not!  Titles  were  not  to  be  her  aim  in 
life.  Most  of  all,  since  her  visit  to  the  empress,  she  had 
promised  herself  to  give  worldly  grandeurs  only  the  es- 
teem they  deserve.  A  title !  A  title  no  more  takes  from 
a  man's  qualities  than  it  adds  to  them.  The  main  thing 
for  a  man  is,  not  to  be  a  duke  or  prince;  it  is,  first  and 
foremost— to  be  a  man! 

Mile.  Yvonne  was  also  painting  a  Madonna's  head 
from  Helia.  She  wished  to  make  a  medallion  of  it  as  a 
present  for  her  mother.  Helia  took  pleasure  in  posing 
for  these  girls  who  were  so  kind  to  her. 

Ethel,  after  seeing  Helia  at  Phil's  the  day  after  the 
Quat'z-Arts  Ball,  had  met  her  several  times,  and  felt  a 


ETHEL'S  IDEA  OP  A  MAN  143 

very  sincere  sympathy  for  her.  She  seemed  to  her  to  be 
"the  right  sort  of  girl." 

She  had  even  proposed  to  send  her  to  Chicago  as  a 
professor  of  physical  training  in  the  Women's  Univer- 
sity founded  by  her  father.  The  situation  was  brilliant, 
her  future  would  be  assured,  and  she  would  probably 
make  a  very  good  marriage  before  long.  Helia  thanked 
her  effusively — but  something  kept  her  in  Paris;  and 
she  added:  "Paris  alone  gives  the  consecration  to 
artistes!" 

Ethel  knew  that  Helia  was  preparing  a  number  which 
was  to  make  a  sensation.  Meanwhile,  she  had  her  little 
sister,  and,  so  it  seemed,  was  paying  for  the  old  clown 
Cemetery  out  of  pure  goodness  of  soul.  For  the  time 
being  she  was  pinched  for  money.  Ethel  would  have 
been  happy  to  do  her  a  kindness;  but  she  knew  that 
Helia  would  never/^accept  anything  under  any  form 
whatsoever,  not  even  a  gift  to  So2urette.  A  smile,  yes! 
a  kind  word,  yes !  an  obligation,  no ! 

It  was  the  same  with  Suzanne,  the  model  who  some- 
times posed  for  pupils,  and  whose  acquaintance  Ethel 
had  also  made.  This  simplicity  of  manners,  which  was 
at  the  foundation  of  their  race,  touched  Ethel.  She 
pardoned  the  "pigmies"  many  things  for  the  sake  of 
these  brave  little  hearts.  An  acrobat  and  a  model — 
what  matters  it?  Character  is  everything! 

"Model-time!    Rest!" 

There  was  a  noise  of  palettes  laid  aside  and  pupils 
rising  in  their  places.  The  old  marquis  telescoped  his 
neck  into  his  laces  and  came  down  from  the  table. 

"You  who  are  collecting  mummies,"  Yvonne  de  Gro- 


144  FATA   MORGANA 

jean  said,  laughing,  to  Ethel,  "you  ought  to  add  the 
concierge;  he  is  a  type!" 

"Don't  laugh,  Yvonne,"  said  Ethel;  "he  would  do 
very  well  in  our  hall  in  Chicago ;  he  'd  give  it  an  air  of 
the  old  regime ;  there  are  heaps  of  men  like  that  in 
princely  anterooms." 

Painting  was  over  and  they  were  now  talking  in  the 
still-life  corner.  Of  the  other  students  some  were  walk- 
ing two  by  two,  some  were  standing,  and  others  seated 
on  the  high  stools ;  and  some  were  grouped  about  Mile. 
Yvonne  and  Ethel,  who  was,  in  a  way,  their  leader, 
by  the  social  position  she  held,  and  the  prestige  of  her 
name.  All  around  her  they  conversed  as  in  a  parlor, 
amusing  themselves  with  a  passing  broil  between  the 
English  Miss  Arabella  and  Mile.  Yvonne. 

"England  should  not  allow  it!"  Miss  Arabella  had 
exclaimed,  speaking  of  some  performance  of  French 
politics. 

' '  French  affairs  concern  us  alone ! ' '  Mile.  Yvonne, 
usually  so  timid,  had  retorted,  as  she  raised  her  head 
whereon  her  hair  was  rolled  like  a  helmet. 

Miss  Rozenkrantz,  a  Swede  with  spectacles,  made 
peace,  as  if  by  chance,  with  her  explanation  of  a  new 
association  in  Stockholm — the  "Women's  Anti-Marriage 
League. ' ' 

' '  What  are  its  articles  ? ' '  Miss  Rowrer  asked. 

"Absolute  indifference  to  men — woman  by  herself 
in  all  and  for  all — meetings — lectures  to  girls — mutual 
aid — unions." 

Conversation  followed  in  which  the  Anti-Marriage 
League  was  discussed.  On  such  subjects  Mile.  Yvonne 


' '  Ethel,  who  was  their  leader 


ETHEL'S  IDEA  OF  A  MAN  147 

did  not  speak.  She  listened  with  astonishment  to  these 
young  women  from  the  countries  of  the  North  talking 
among  themselves  of  things  on  which  she  never  touched : 
marriage  and  anti-marriage— leagues— clubs— of  all  this 
she  was  ignorant. 

Mile.  Yvonne  was  passing  two  months  in  Paris.  It 
was  the  Comtesse  de  Donjeon,  a  friend  of  the  Grojean 
family,  who  had  introduced  her  to  Miss  Rowrer.  The 
two  young  women  were  unlike  both  in  education  and 
ideas— and  they  at  once  became  great  friends.  But 
Mile.  Yvonne  was  shortly  to  return  to  her  old  tranquil, 
provincial  home,  and  she  was  enjoying  her  last  weeks 
in  Paris.  To-day,  especially,  she  was  delighted  to  hear 
them  talking  freely  before  her,  and,  most  of  all,  about 
marriage.  For  hermit  was  the  escapade  of  a  school- 
girl looking  over  the  wall  at  the  fruits  of  a  forbidden 
garden. 

One  thing,  however,  was  troubling  her.  Her  mother 
had  not  come  back,  as  she  always  did,  to  take  her  home. 
Doubtless  there  was  some  unforeseen  hindrance.  She 
confided  her  disquiet  to  Ethel. 

"Don't  worry;  your  mother  will  come.  And  even  if 
she  does  not,  you  can  go  away  alone,  I  suppose." 

' '  What ! ' '  said  Yvonne,  ' '  cross  Paris  all  alone  ?  You 
wouldn't  think  of  it!" 

"But  I  do  it!" 

"That  is  true,"  Yvonne  said,  blushing. 

They  were  speaking  in  a  low  tone;  the  others  were 
not  listening,  but  surrounded  Miss  Rozenkrantz. 

"What  is  more  natural  than  to  go  about  alone?" 
Ethel  said  to  Yvonne.  "What  harm  is  there,  voyonst 


148  FATA  MORGANA 

You  slander  your  fellow-countrymen— the  men  of  Paris 
are  not  tigers,  I  imagine.  What  danger  is  there?" 

"Oh,  none,"  Yvonne  admitted;  "but  they  are  said  to 
be  so  gallant!" 

"Gallant!  An  ill-bred  fellow  accosts  you  in  the  street 
and  you  say  he  is  gallant?" 

"Not  exactly,  no,"  Yvonne  hastened  to  say;  "it  's 
just  the  contrary." 

"Men  such  as  that,"  said  Ethel,  "are  not  men— 
that's  all!" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Men  who  are  not  men — that  must  be  another  of 
Miss  Ethel's  pleasantries,"  thought  Yvonne. 

Ethel  looked  at  her  water-color,  throwing  back  her 
shoulders  to  judge  better  of  the  effect.  What  she  did 
not  understand  was  that  a  young  woman  like  Yvonne 
should  accommodate  herself  to  such  a  state  of  affairs — 
Yvonne,  who  but  now,  during  the  squabble  with  Miss 
Arabella,  had  the  decided  air  of  some  Gaulish  Amazon. 
Why  should  she  be  so  timid  with  regard  to  such  insolent 
dogs  ?  She  felt  really  a  lofty  and  protecting  pity  for  this 
sister  of  an  old  country,  nice  as  she  was. 

"Men  such  as  that!"  she  began  again,  in  a  tone  of 
contempt. 

"Such  as  what?"  Yvonne  timidly  asked.  "Do  you 
mean  workmen,  men  with  blouses— those  of  whom  you 
were  just  speaking— those  who  are  not— 

"Who  said  anything  like  that?"  replied  Ethel. 
"Dress  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"It 's  their  profession,  then?"  Yvonne  asked  again; 


ETHEL'S  IDEA  OF  A  MAN  149 

"or  is  it  nationality?  The  Englishman  is  different  from 
the  Frenchman— the  German—' 

"Oehsenmaulsalatsfabrikant !"  Ethel  interrupted. 

"All  go  to  make  up  so  many  different  types,  I  know," 
Mile.  Yvonne  continued. 

"It's  nothing  of  all  that!"  said  Ethel,  seriously. 
' '  When  I  say  a  man  I  speak  neither  of  an  officer  nor  of 
a  lawyer  nor  of  a  doctor  nor  a  workman  nor  a  prince. 
Rich  or  poor,  German,  English,  or  French— it  does  n't 
matter!" 

The  students  had  gathered  round.  They  asked  one 
another  what  Miss  Rowrer  meant— who,  then,  is  the  rara 
avis  that  is  neither  this  nor  that— not  a  workman,  not  a 
prince  ? 

Helia  kept  silence  and  ilistened.  Which  man  ?  She 
had  known  one  who  seemed  to  her  frank  and  loyal,  and 
gave  her  his  word ;  and  then — then  he  had  forgotten  it ! 
What  meaning,  then,  was  there  in  Miss  Rowrer 's 
words?  But  she  understood  perfectly,  and  she  blushed 
for  Phil  when  Ethel,  to  signify  those  qualities  of  up- 
rightness, equity,  and  honor— that  respect  for  one's 
word  once  given — which  she  meant  by  "man,"  re- 
peated in  a  tone  of  deepest  conviction: 

"I  say  A  MAN!" 


PART  II 
MORE  THAN  QUEEN 


CHAPTER  I 

WANTED— A    DUCHESS! 

A  S  he  had  himself  said  to  Ethel  the  day  of  his  visit 
l\  to  Phil's  studio,  Conrad  di  Tagliaferro,  Duke  of 
-£j^-  Morgania,  was  much  to  be  pitied— he  had  to 
quit  Paris ! 

The  duke  reveled  in  the  life  of  the  Boulevard,  los- 
ing himself  amid  the  crowd,  climbing  to  the  tops  of 
omnibuses,  taking  a  cab^o  the  opera,  getting  himself 
spoken  of  in  the  society  "hews  of  the  papers.  He  was 
seen  everywhere,— in  salons  and  at  the  theater,  at  the 
clubs  and  at  the  races.  There  was  no  ceremony  for 
him,  and  he  had  no  cares.  Arriving  in  Paris  he  put 
aside  all  the  duties  of  his  position  as  you  might  leave 
a  coat  in  the  cloak-room.  When  he  accepted  a  friend's 
invitation  he  always  insisted  that  there  should  be  no 
questions  of  etiquette. 

"  Sans  ceremonie — it  's  understood,"  and  he  would 
add  in  Parisian  slang,  "au  hazard  de  la  fourchette 
[pot-luck]  !" 

However,  there  was  a  "but."  His  people  pestered  him 

from  afar  in  the  shape  of  two  voivodes  who  had  been 

delegated  by  his  nobles,  and  who  followed  him  even 

to  his  late  suppers  like  some  twofold  Banquo  specter. 

153 


154  FATA  MORGANA 

These  delegates  were  in  Paris  to  urge  his  return. 
The  duke  had  been  lucky  enough  to  avoid  them  until 
now;  but  their  mere  presence  said  clearly  enough  that 
things  were  going  wrong  in  Morgania. 

Since  the  fabulous  days  of  Morgana  the  unity  of 
this  little  warlike  people  had  always  been  kept  at  its 
frontier,  beneath  the  shadow  of  its  great  red  banner 
with  the  white  cross  facing  barbarism ;  and  it  was 
from  that  side  the  storm  was  muttering  once  again. 

There  were  grave  reports  from  Macedonia.  Houses 
were  being  burned  and  convoys  pillaged.  All  the  vil- 
lages from  Kassovo  to  Monastir  were  in  ebullition. 
Bands  of  bashi-bazouks  had  come  as  far  as  the  Drina. 
It  would  be  necessary  to  go  back.  The  duke  saw  it 
clearly— great  events  were  preparing. 

"You  were  present,  I  believe,"  the  duke  said  to  Ca- 
racal, "when  I  spoke  at  Phil's  place  of  the  old  sorceress, 
who  is  a  prophetess  for  some  and  a  saint  for  others,  and 
has  more  influence  in  the  country  than  all  the  journal- 
ists in  the  world  could  have.  This  old  woman  predicts 
the  future.  I  assure  you,  Caracal,  she  foretells  aston- 
ishing things,  absolutely  amazing,  and  I  myself  have 
seen  them  realized  many  times  over.  Just  now  she  is 
upsetting  the  country  with  talk  about  the  return  of 
Morgana. ' ' 

"But  there  's  no  harm  in  that,"  Caracal  remarked. 

"She  excites  the  people,  and  it  will  end  in  war, 
that's  all!"  answered  the  duke,  gravely.  "Ah!  the 
prophetess  and  her  prophecies — they  are  a  load  upon 
my  back,  I  can  tell  you ! ' ' 

' '  Why  don 't  you  shut  her  up  in  a  madhouse  ? ' ' 


WANTED- A  DUCHESS!  155 

"That  's  more  easily  said  than  done,"  observed  the 
duke.  "An  old  woman  adored  by  an  entire  people— 
you  may  not  believe  me,  but— I  assure  you— she  's 
stronger  than  I!" 

Caracal  looked  at  the  duke  to  see  if  he  was  in 
earnest.  But  a  duke's  psychology  was  entirely  beyond 
his  ken,  subtle  observer  as  he  was.  The  duke's  ani- 
mosity against  the  sorceress  had  a  look  of  embroil- 
ment between  sovereigns. 

While  the  prospect  of  all  these  troubles  alienated 
the  duke  from  Morgania,  so  a  creature  dear  to  his 
heart  attracted  him  homeward.  This  was  his  only  child, 
his  son,  the  little  Duke  Adalbert.  All  the  duke's  affec- 
tions were  centered  upon  this  son,  after  the  death  of 
the  duchess.  It  had  n<st  been  a  happy  marriage. 
First  of  all,  his  wife  had  made  him  take  a  dislike  to 
his  people.  She  was  an  Austrian  archduchess— more 
than  an  aristocrat,  an  Olympian ;  and  the  fall  from  the 
elegance  of  Vienna  life  to  severe  duties  in  Morgania 
filled  her  with  bitterness.  She  detested  her  subjects, 
and  they  paid  her  back  the  compliment.  Never  had  a 
duchess  been  so  unpopular. 

Until  then,— not  to  speak  of  the  heroine  who  had 
founded  the  glory  of  the  house,— all  the  duchesses  had 
had  the  gift  of  pleasing  the  people,  perhaps  because 
most  of  them  were  themselves  sprung  from  the  people. 
Love 's  fancies  had  reigned  in  the  house  of  Tagliaferro, 
and,  thanks  to  such  spontaneousness  of  feeling,  mis- 
alliances had  not  been  rare.  Just  as  at  the  Austrian 
court  Archduke  Henry,  the  emperor's  nephew,  had 
espoused  a  dancing-girl  who  became  Baroness  Wei- 


156  FATA  MORGANA 

deck,  and  before  him  Archduke  John  had  married  the 
pretty  Anna  Plochel,  a  postmaster's  daughter,  so  the 
Dukes  of  Morgania,  with  aristocratic  loftiness,  chose 
their  consorts  wherever  it  seemed  good  to  them. 

Such  duchesses  the  people  of  Morgania  preferred  to 
all  others.  It  was  very  important  for  the  future  of 
the  house  that  she  who  was  to  succeed  the  mother  of 
Adalbert  should  possess  all  those  qualities  which  make 
a  woman  adorable— goodness,  beauty,  and  valor. 

In  Morgania,  where  diplomatic  refinements  were  un- 
known, there  was  needed  a  young  woman  of  new 
blood,  bringing  energy  with  her,  and  able  to  revive 
confidence.  There  had  been  such  in  the  ancestry  of 
Duke  Conrad — heroines  sprung  from  the  people, 
daughters  of  the  mountain  or  the  plain. 

"You  shall  see  their  statues,"  the  duke  said  one 
day  to  Ethel,  who  had  come  with  her  grandmother  to 
see  his  collections — "that  is,  if  you  do  me  the  honor  of 
stopping  in  Morgania  when  you  make  your  Mediter- 
ranean yacht  tour." 

"It  is  a  promise,"  said  Ethel. 

"It  will  interest  you,  Miss  Rowrer,  to  visit  my 
stronghold.  It  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  in  Europe. 
The  donjon  at  the  entrance  is  formidable.  It  was  in 
1221,  when  he  returned  from  the  Crusade  of  Honorius 
III  and  Andrew  II,  King  of  Hungary,  that  my  ances- 
tor, Enguerrand,  had  it  built,  along  with  the  great 
hall  used  for  the  people's  assemblages;  for,  to  procure 
the  necessary  resources  of  his  expedition,  he  had  been 
obliged  to  enfranchise  the  serfs." 

"He  did  well,"  observed  grandma. 


WANTED- A  DUCHESS!  157 

"He  could  not  have  done  better,'*  the  duke  replied. 
"Moreover,  there  came  out  of  it  the  Hall,  which  is  a 
masterpiece." 

"The  Hall,  doubtless,  is  decorated  with  the  arms 
and  armor  of  the  epoch? — that  will  interest  me 
greatly. ' ' 

"There  are  neither  cuirasses  nor  gauntlets,"  an- 
swered the  duke;  "neither  helmets  nor  the  armop^of 
knights  on  horseback,  as  in  the  Tower  of  London  or 
the  Invalides  in  Paris.  But  such  as  it  is,  it  will  in- 
terest you  even  more.  It  has  something  that  will  go 
straight  to  your  heart." 

"Really?"  Ethel  asked.    "And  what  can  that  be?" 

"This,"  the  duke  went  on.  "The  Walhalla  of  Ba- 
varia has  been  built  to  German  heroes;  our  Hall  is 
built  to  the  glory,  not  of  the  heroes,  but  of  the  heroines 
of  Morgania.  My  ancestor,  Enguerrand,  consecrated 
his  Hall  to  the  glorification  of  our  women." 

"Ah!"  Ethel  exclaimed,  deeply  interested. 

"A  great  idea!"  said  grandma.  "America  ought  to 
have  a  hall  like  that  at  Lincoln  Park.  We  have  our 
heroines,  too— it  would  be  full  in  little  time!" 

"Madame  Rowrer  is  right,"  said  the  duke.  "To  be 
a  heroine  there  is  no  need  to  fight,  sword  in  hand ;  the 
fulfilment  of  the  civil  and  moral  virtues  makes  hero- 
ines, and  devotedness  and  love  have  their  own  mar- 
tyrs. But  I  am  going  to  show  you  an  old  engraving 
of  the  Hall." 

The  duke  rose  and  searched  in  a  portfolio. 

"Two  characteristic  features,"  he  continued, 
' '  strike  one  in  feudalism :  individual  energy  and  im- 


158  FATA  MORGANA 

provement  in  the  condition  of  women.  When  Duke 
Enguerrand  went  forth  to  look  for  war  and  adven- 
tures, my  ancestress,  Bertha,  remained  in  Morgania 
as  the  duke's  representative,  clothed  with  the  right  of 
administering  justice,  and  charged,  during  his  absence, 
with  the  defense  and  honor  of  the  country.  Such  sov- 
ereign power  often  gave  to  the  women  of  that  time 
virtues  which  they  had  no  opportunity  of  exercising 
otherwise. 

"When  the  knights  and  men-at-arms  were  gone  to 
the  Holy  Land,  only  the  women  remained  at  home. 
Then  Hungary  was  invaded  by  the  Mongols,  who 
ravaged  everything  down  to  the  Adriatic.  Morgania 
was  on  the  point  of  perishing;  but  Bertha  the  Horse- 
woman, as  the  people  called  her  ever  after,  scoured 
the  country  the  whole  winter  long,  leading  convoys, 
and  bringing  in  supplies  from  Italy  and  mercenaries 
from  Germany.  Thus  she  repelled  the  Mongols  and 
saved  Morgania  from  invasion,  and  the  people  from 
famine. 

"When  the  duke  came  back  he  found  Morgania  in 
mourning,  for  the  duchess  had  died  at  her  task.  Saint 
Morgana,  the  heroic  ancestress,  already  had  her  al- 
tars. The  duke  wished  to  consecrate  the  glory  of  the 
others  as  well ;  and  he  built  the  Hall  so  that  henceforth 
the  people  might  gather  around  their  images  under 
the  saint's  protection.  Dying  he  expressed  a  wish 
that  his  descendants  should  dedicate  the  Hall  to  the 
glory  of  their  women.  Here  is  the  engraving,"  the 
duke  said,  turning  toward  Miss  Rowrer  and  grandma. 

"Indeed,"  said  Ethel,  "all  this  interests  me  tremen- 


"  '  Here  is  the  engraving ' ; 


WANTED-A  DUCHESS!  161 

dously.  So  your  ancestor  Enguerrand  was  the  creator 
of  women's  rights!" 

Ethel  and  grandma  examined  the  engraving.  It 
represented  an  octagonal  hall  of  somber  and  mas- 
sive aspect.  The  eight  segments  of  the  vaulted  roof 
were  separated  by  stone  ribbing  that  met  in  a  fleuron, 
from  which  hung  an  immense  chandelier.  The  arches 
rested  on  eight  columns.  Between  two  of  these  a^solid 
wall  had  been  built;  it  was  covered  with  vestiges  of 
ancient  painting.  Stone  steps  mounted  up  to  this 
wall,  making  a  platform  on  which  there  was  a  bench 
of  carved  wood. 

"Let  me  be  your  guide,"  said  the  duke.  "This 
large  wooden  bench  against  the  wall  between  the  two 
columns  is  the  ducal  throne.  The  stuffs  and  cushions 
which  cover  it  were  brought  from  Tyre  and  Sidon  by 
Enguerrand." 

"That  is  very  beautiful,"  Ethel  interrupted,  "but 
it  is  your  heroines  that  interest  me  most— where  are 
they  in  all  this?  Bertha  the  Horsewoman,  where  is 
she?" 

"Here— this  statue,"  the  duke  replied.  "As  you  see, 
there  are  three  statues  facing  each  other — first  Bertha, 
then  Thilda,  the  duchess  who  killed  Sultan  Murad  at 
Kroja  with  her  own  hand,  and  then  Rhodai's  the  Slave. 
The  fourth  pedestal  is  still  empty." 

"Was  there  a  slave  in  your  ancestry?"  Ethel  asked. 
"It  is  the  name  you  apply  to  Rhodai's." 

"She  was  the  daughter  of  a  simple  voivode,"  said 
the  duke.  "She  accompanied  to  Venice  the  daughter  of 
the  King  of  Hungary,  whose  kingdom  had  partly  fallen 


162  FATA  MORGANA 

under  the  power  of  the  Turks.  But  they  were  attacked 
by  an  Ottoman  galley  and  every  one  was  massacred 
except  Rhodai's.  As  she  trampled  the  Crescent  under 
foot  they  chained  her  to  the  rowers'  bench,  from  which 
she  escaped  only  by  a  shipwreck.  She  came  back  to 
Morgania,  had  the  duke  buy  a  galley  in  Venice,  chose 
a  crew  of  hardy  corsairs,  and  began  a  war  without 
mercy  against  the  Turks  who  infested  the  coast.  She 
put  herself  at  the  service  of  Don  Juan  of  Austria 
at  the  battle  of  Lepanto.  My  ancestor,  Hugh  XIII, 
made  her  his  duchess,  and  Philip  II  of  Spain,  as  a 
recompense  of  her  valor,  gave  her  the  hereditary  title, 
unknown  till  then,  of  Lady  Knight  of  Malta." 

"That  was  a  woman!"  Ethel  said.  "With  a 
duchess  like  Rhodai's  a  people  could  not  perish!  But 
Morgana,  the  fairy,  the  saint,  in  whose  honor  the 
Hall  was  built— I  do  not  see  her?" 

"On  the  contrary,  she  is  everywhere.  She  lights 
up  the  Hall  with  her  rays,"  the  duke  replied.  "This 
engraving  does  not  give  the  entrance  portal  which 
overlooks  city  and  sea  and  country.  This  portal  was 
made  at  Enguerrand's  return.  It  is  like  the  entrance 
to  an  enchanted  palace;  and  by  its  magnificence  and 
delicate  ornamentation  contrasts  with  the  general 
severity  of  the  Hall.  As  in  Gothic  churches  this  por- 
tal sets  far  back  into  the  interior.  An  immense 
stained-glass  window  overlooks  it;  and  from  this  light 
falls  in  floods  through  one  of  the  sides  of  the  vaulted 
roof,  which  was  purposely  suppressed." 

"I  understand,"  Ethel  said.  "Face  to  face  with  the 
ducal  throne,  your  ancestress  Morgana  dominates  every- 
thing!" 


WANTED- A  DUCHESS!  163 

"Yes,"  continued  the  duke;  "at  eventide  the  set- 
ting sun  enters  the  interior  of  the  Hall  through  this 
window,  which  represents  the  glorious  martyrdom  of 
Morgana.  You  would  say  that  her  blood  threw  crim- 
son stains  upon  the  throne  itself  and  the  glow  of  her 
miracle  lighted  up  the  whole  hall." 

"What  about  the  fresco  which  has  left  traces^on 
the  wall  behind  the  throne?  Was  it,  too,  of  some  war- 
like deed?"  Ethel  asked. 

"No;  this  one  represented  the  legend  of  Morgana 
rising  from  the  sea  and  bringing  in  her  arms  what 
should  be  the  fortune  of  Morgania.  What  was  it  she 
was  bringing  in  her  arms?  I  know  not.  Morgana, 
it  appears,  was  represented  in  the  fresco  issuing  from 
the  sea,  and  covered  with  seaweed." 

"Just  as  in  the  picture  of  Monsieur  Phil,"  remarked 
Ethel. 

"Exactly  so,"  said  the  duke.  "It  was  the  moment 
I  chose;  and  your  fellow-countryman  has  reconstructed 
it.  In  my  next  trip  to  Morgania  Monsieur  Phil  is  to 
come  to  the  castle  and  finish  his  picture  on  the  spot. 
Before  then  I  shall  have  time  to  search  through  the 
archives,  and  perhaps  I  shall  find  what  it  was  Morgana 
was  bringing  in  her  arms." 

Thereupon  Miss  Rowrer  and  grandma  went  away. 
The  duke  remained  alone.  He  retired  to  his  study — 
a  den  plastered  with  sporting  photographs— and  sink- 
ing on  a  sofa  lighted  a  cigarette  and  began  dreaming 
as  he  followed  the  light  smoke  with  his  eye. 

"Morgana — she  who  was  to  come  forth  from  the 
sea  bringing  fortune  and  happiness  in  her  arms— is 
it  not  Miss  Rowrer  landing  in  her  yacht  before  the 


164  FATA   MORGANA 

castle?  She,  too,  comes  from  the  setting  sun.  She, 
too,  brings  fortune.  She,  too,  would  be  adored  by  the 
people.  What  a  strange  coincidence !  The  old  sorcer- 
ess is  not  so  crazy  after  all,"  the  duke  said  to  himself, 
"and  there  is  nothing  impossible  in  it!  Whatever 
may  be  the  personal  qualities  and  fabulous  fortune  of 
Miss  Rowrer,  a  Duke  Tagliaferro  is  her  equal.  Through 
me  she  would  be  Duchess  of  Morgania,  Protectress  of  the 
Skipetars,  Lady  Knight  of  Malta,  Princess  of  Kroja, 
Queen  of  Antioch  in  the  Holy  Land,  allied  to  the  court 
of  Prussia,  and  cousin  of  the  Hapsburgs.  There  is  not 
an  older  nor  a  nobler  house  in  Europe." 

It  made  the  duke's  head  swim  only  to  think  of  it. 
He  was  a  descendant  of  Hugh,  the  Frankish  chief  to 
whom  Theodosius  had  given  one  of  his  twelve  duchies 
of  the  West,  and  since  that  time  nothing — not  even 
Attila's  torrent,  nor  the  Turks,  nor  Charles  the  V,  nor 
so  many  famines,  nor  so  many  wars— nothing  had  ever 
struck  the  sword  from  the  hands  of  his  ancestors — 
nothing  save  the  anger  of  the  people  against  Duke 
Adhemar,  who  was  driven  from  the  throne  because  he 
had  delivered  up  Morgana! 

I  will  maintain  by  the  sword!  This  proud  device 
had  never  proved  false,  as  the  old  iron-bound  ar- 
chives could  witness.  The  duke  felt  weary — weary 
with  all  the  weariness  and  old  with  all  the  age  of 
all  his  ancestors;  and  his  fingers  had  scarcely  the 
strength  to  knock  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette. 

What  a  youth  his  inheritance  of  glory  had  won  for 
him!  How  he  had  envied  in  other  days  the  little 
peasants  who  ran  barefoot  along  the  beach,  whereas 


WANTED- A  DUCHESS!  165 

he,  brought  up  by  sad-faced  priests  in  the  old  feudal 
castle,  was  less  free  than  a  slave.  Then  .came  his  mar- 
riage, which  had  been  settled  for  him  for  reasons  of 
state,  and  the  death  of  his  father,  which  gave  him 
the  administration  of  the  duchy— an  ungrateful  taskp 
No!  He  had  not  lived!  Enough  of  the  gloomy  pal- 
ace and  rude  peasants !  He  wished  to  live  and  to  be 
amused— to  be  young  for  once  in  his  life.  He  would 
know  happiness,  at  least! 

The  duke  gazed  at  the  blue  curls  of  smoke  floating 
as  aimlessly  as  himself.  He  had  not  even  hoped  for 
a  marriage  like  this  with  Miss  Rowrer,  having  all  the 
advantages  of  a  royal  marriage,  without  any  of  its  in- 
conveniences. She  would  be  one  of  the  richest  and 
most  brilliant  sovereigns  of  Europe. 

Never  had  life  appeared  sweeter  to  him  than  now. 
He  was  buoyed  up  with  hope  and  illusions.  There  was 
this  marriage  for  the  near  future,  and  meanwhile  he 
could  enjoy  the  little  time  he  still  had  to  pass  in 
Paris.  This  evening,  for  instance,  he  was  to  go  with 
Caracal  and  meet  Helia  behind  the  scenes  of  the  Nou- 
veau-Cirque.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  more  than  he 
ought  of  Helia,  but  he  wished  to  thank  her  before  his 
departure  for  having  posed  as  Morgana. 

A  lackey  broke  in  upon  his  reverie,  handing  the 
duke  two  cartes-de-visite  on  a  silver  plate. 

"Zrnitschka!" 

' '  Bjelopawlit  ji ! " 

"The  devil!"  said  the  duke.  "My  two  voivodes— 
my  two  kill-joys!" 

Ah !  those  two  sad-faced  ' '  ambassadors  of  the  sor- 


166  FATA  MORGANA 

ceress" — would  they  never  cease  harassing  him?  The 
valet  spoke: 

"The  gentlemen  wish  to  have  the  honor  of  present- 
ing their  homage  to  monseigneur. " 

"Yes;  I  am  acquainted  with  their  homage,"  the 
duke  said,  below  his  voice,  as  he  drew  out  his  watch. 
"Half-past  six,  and  Caracal  is  waiting  for  me— and 
Helia,  whom  I  have  to  see — " 

"What  answer  shall  I  give  these  gentlemen?"  asked 
the  valet. 

"How  do  I  know!"  answered  the  duke,  vexed  at 
being  troubled  while  thinking  of  so  many  things. 
"Tell  them — oh,  tell  them  I  am  having  a  political  in- 
terview— a  tete-a-tete  with  the  representative  of  a 
great  power!" 


r 


CHAPTER  II 

A   PARISIAN    DEBUT 

THE  duke,  imposing  and  superb,  was  present;  and 
Caracal,  with  his  monocle  in  his  eye,  was  beside 
him.  It  was  the  first  night  of  Helia.  If  it  had 
been  a  common  first  night  at  the  Theatre  Franc,ais,  the 
duke  would  have  thought  himself  dishonored  by  ap- 
pearing before  the  second  act.  But  he  wished  to  offer 
a  rose  to  Helia,  and  so  he,  a  gentleman,  had  committed 
and  made  Caracal  commit  an  unheard-of  thing— they 
had  dined  between  seven  and  eight  so  as  to  arrive  on 
time. 

"You  are  interested  in  behind  the  scenes?  Your 
presence  greatly  honors  us,  monseigneur, "  said  the  di- 
rector of  the  Cirque  as  he  passed  by  them. 

Was  he  interested  ?  He  was  more  than  that— he  was 
enthralled. 

First  of  all,  Caracal  suggested  it  was  very  chic  to 
have  the  air  of  paying  court  to  Helia,  who  to-morrow 
would  be  celebrated  as  a  star.  This  would  give  an 
irresistible  Don  Juan  mark  to  his  ducal  title. 

"That  will  help  me  with  Miss  Rowrer,"  thought 
the  duke,  who  was  pupil  and  plaything  of  the  clever 
167 


168  FATA  MORGANA 

Caracal.  There  was  a  single  shadow  in  his  picture— 
Phil  was  not  there! 

Phil  was  to  accompany  Miss  Rowrer  to  the  Amer- 
ican Club  Exhibition;  but  this  touched  the  duke— oh, 
so  very  slightly.  Miss  Rowrer  had  a  great  esteem  for 
Phil,  but  pshaw !  a  poor  devil  of  an  artist  was  no 
rival  for  him,  a  duke  with  his  duchy,  descended  from 
fairies  and  queens  and  saints!  Against  all  this  what 
could  avail  her  innocent  flirtation  with  Phil? 

The  public  had  not  yet  come  and  the  hall  was  empty. 
Here  and  there  the  electric  globes  were  lighting  up; 
but  the  duke  and  Caracal  beheld  a  sight  which  helped 
them  to  pass  the  time.  The  sensational  equestrienne, 
the  Marquesa  de  Guerrera,  was  coming  down  the  steps, 
enameled  and  rouged  and  resplendent  with  diamonds. 
Monseigneur  gallantly  held  her  stirrup  as  she  pain- 
fully climbed  upon  her  horse.  She  dashed  out  on  the 
track  in  front  of  the  empty  benches  for  a  short  re- 
hearsal. She  asked  for  the  orchestra  and  the  lights, 
to  accustom  her  horse  to  the  noise  and  glitter.  She 
was  afraid  he  would  take  fright.  She  trembled  at  his 
slightest  shying. 

''Take  away  that  white  paper— that  program  on  the 
bench;  take  it  away!  And  do  you  applaud!"  the 
Marquesa  called  to  the  stable-boys  who  approached  the 
ring. 

"Applaud!  to  accustom  him  to  the  bravos!" 

The  horse  began  turning  like  a  great  mechanical 
plaything  with  a  doll  on  its  back. 

"The  horse  does  all  the  work!"  said  Suzanne  be- 
hind the  duke.  She  had  just  arrived  with  Helia  and 
Sceurette,  Helia 's  little  sister. 


'Giving  the  Flower  to  the  Child" 


A  PARISIAN  DEBUT 

"No,  I  assure  you,"  said  Helia,  "haute  ecole  riding 
is  difficult!" 

The  duke  turned. 

"How  do  you  do,  mesdemoiselles ? "  he  said,  lifting 
his  hat. 

"Monseigneur — "  Helia  began. 

"Oh,  monsieur,"  Soeurette  broke  in,  "it  's  for  me, 
is  n't  it?— the  pretty  rose?" 

"  Why— why— yes !"  the  duke  answered,  giving  the 
flower  to  the  child. 

He  remarked  Helia 's  surprise.  She  seemed  troubled 
by  his  visit.  It  had  been  the  affair  of  a  moment,  but 
it  was  sufficient  to  hinder  the  duke,  who  was  no  apt 
pupil  of  Caracal,  from  giving  the  rose  to  Helia. 

"You  lack  nerve!"  Caracal  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"It  will  come!"  answered  monseigneur. 

"I  see  the  duke  and  Caracal,"  Helia  said  to  herself; 
' '  but  Phil  is  not  here !  It  's  not  very  nice  of  him. ' ' 

The  public  was  coming  in.  The  equestrienne  left  off 
rehearsing,  with  her  hat  over  one  ear. 

"Come,  we  have  to  get  ready,"  said  Helia.  "Au 
revoir,  messieurs ! ' ' 

The  benches  were  filling  up.  Against  the  dark  shad- 
ows of  the  boxes  fans  waved  to  and  fro.  The  duke 
straightened  up  in  the  respectful  space  which  his  title 
of  monseigneur  left  around  him.  Near  him  was  Cem- 
etery, the  clown,  waiting  for  Helia,  whom  he  was  to 
accompany  in  the  ring.  He  shook  the  yellow  tresses  of 
his  wig  and  groaned  constantly,  complaining  of  his 
aches  and  speaking  of  a  return  to  his  box  to  rub  him- 
self with  camphorated  alcohol. 


172  FATA  MORGANA 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  with  you— I  '11  rub  you!" 
the  duke  said,  Parisian  to  the  finger-tips,  and  hop- 
ing, if  he  rubbed  the  old  clown's  spine,  that  he  would 
redeem  in  Caracal's  eyes  the  rose  given  to  Sceurette. 

"No,  thank  you,  monseigneur.  There  is  nothing  to 
be  done,"  said  the  old  clown;  "I,  too,  was  famous,  and 
now  I  'm  only  an  old  dog — ah!" 

But  no  one  listened  to  him. 

The  show  began.  In  the  ring  the  blond  hair  and 
doll  face  of  Louise  Bingel  whirled  to  the  music  of 
the  orchestra,  as  she  leaned  over  to  apply  the  whip  to 
her  horse's  neck  with  many  a  "Go!"  and  "Up!" 

The  public  talked  as  it  looked  through  the  program. 
The  real  show  was  to  come  later.  It  was  not  the 
"Gallinaro  Family,  somersaults,  bravourturnerin,  tapis- 
tumblers,"  nor  "Miss  Soho,  the  world's  greatest  I- 
don 't-know-what, "  nor  "Princess  Colibri  and  her 
Prince-Consort" — no!  that  which  attracted  the  public 
was,  first  and  foremost,  Helia.  Discreet  notes  in  the 
papers  had  given  hopes  that  there  would  be  something 
"never  seen  before."  Some  said  she  was  a  young  girl 
of  good  family,  whom  an  irresistible  vocation  had  drawn 
to  the  circus.  Details,  too,  were  given  of  her  career — 
in  contradiction  with  one  another,  of  course. 

What  was  not  known,  though,  was  how  Helia  had  been 
working  for  months.  She  was  going  to  try  a  daring 
feat.  Even  the  costume  was  to  be  new.  To  her  the 
nudity  of  the  maillot  seemed  brutal. 

"Beauty  is  well,  talent  is  better!"  Cemetery,  her 
professor  in  other  days,  used  to  say;  and  she  wished 
to  be  applauded  for  her  art  and  not  for  her  beauty. 


) 


Cemetery 


,. 


A  PARISIAN  D^BUT  175 

Her  wonderful  gymnastic  knowledge  gave  her  the 
right  to  attempt  the  feat. 

She  thought  in  gestures.  She  had  in  her  the  inborn 
love  of  grace  and  physical  force.  With  graceful  move- 
ment she  summed  up  a  thousand  things  which  she 
could  not  have  said ;  and  she  had  the  idea  of  reviving 
the  acrobatics  of  the  ancients,  just  as  others  have  re- 
constructed the  songs  of  old  times,  and  the  dance 
through  the  ages.  One  day  at  the  Louvre  she  had  seen 
on  a  Greek  vase  an  artistic  dance  which  struck  her. 
She  had  spoken  of  it  to  Phil  while  posing  for  Mor- 
gana— for  Helia  saw  Phil  often. 

In  spite  of  all,  she  loved  to  be  near  him,  and  though 
Phil  might  forget,  on  her  side  she  felt  her  love  for 
him  only  increase.  She  was  one  of  those  proud  hearts 
which  love  but  once.  In  spite  of  all,  she  believed  in 
the  sacredness  of  a  sworn  promise.  Phil  would  come 
back  to  her!  Besides,  Phil  was  a  precious  help  in 
the  work  she  was  undertaking.  Together  they  con- 
sulted the  "Recherches  Historiques  et  Critiques  sur  les 
Mimes  et  Pantomimes  du  Seigneur  de  Rivery."  Her 
head  was  full  of  neurobatie,  scheunobatie,  and  acro- 
batic. She  dreamed  of  gymnastics  and  the  dance.  She 
studied  her  movements  in  Phil's  studio,  in  the  even- 
ing, after  his  work. 

He  had  a  jointed  lay-figure  which  she  put  in  the 
proper  poses,  seeking  for  effects  in  its  curving  and 
bending  back.  She  cut  out  little  costumes  and  tried 
them  on  it.  She  went  to  the  Library,  and  looked  through 
the  boxes  of  the  booksellers  along  the  Quais.  The  in- 
stinct of  the  beautiful  guided  her.  She  composed  her 
number  as  she  might  compose  a  poem. 


176  FATA  MORGANA 

The  reverse  of  a  Roman  medal  and  an  old  engraving 
representing  the  Genoese  who  descended  the  towers 
of  Notre  Dame,  torch  in  hand,  to  offer  a  crown  to 
Queen  Isabeau  suggested  ideas  to  her.  A  biography 
of  Madame  Saqui,  who  was  called  the  first  acrobat  of 
the  empire,  and  whom  Napoleon  entitled  mon  enragee, 
was  very  useful  to  her. 

''Plato,"  Phil  said  to  her  one  day  when  they  were 
studying  together,  "Plato  contends  that  gymnastics 
give  grace  to  the  movements  of  the  body,  of  which 
we  ought  to  think  even  before  adorning  the  mind." 

"Plato  is  wrong,"  was  Helia 's  answer. 

But  she  proved  that  he  was  right  by  the  moral 
energy  which  physical  training  had  developed  in  her. 
For  months  she  studied  without  let-up,  mastering  re- 
bellious muscles,  beginning  again,  twenty  times  over, 
the  same  thing,  setting  to  work  with  all  her  heart  and 
all  her  courage,  with  clenched  teeth  and  eyes  shining 
with  the  pride  of  will.  There  was  despair  in  her  mad 
energy. 

"But  you  will  kill  yourself,  Helia,"  Phil  said  to  her. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Helia.     "I  will   die   or  do  it!" 

"In  other  days,"  she  thought  in  her  simplicity, 
"Phil  did  not  like  to  hear  me  speaking  of  my  trade; 
but  who  knows?— he  may  change  if  I  become  a  grande 
artiste." 

That  evening  she  was  to  present  to  the  public  the 
outcome  of  her  efforts. 

Suzanne,  in  the  dress  of  a  pretty  little  Pierrette, 
was  already  in  the  ring.  "With  her  usual  go  she  was 
showing  off  trained  rabbits.  They  jumped  through 


A  PARISIAN  D^BUT  177 

hoops,  climbed  up  on  her,  and  ate  seeds  from  her  hand. 
It  made  a  little  interlude  before  Helia's  number. 

At  the  entrance  of  the  stables  clowns  and  firemen, 
reporters  and  men  of  sport  made  up  a  guard  of  honor. 
There  was  even  an  impresario  from  New  York,  who 
spoke  to  Suzanne  when  she  came  out. 

"Brava,  mademoiselle!  Ah!  if  you  only  knew  how 
to  sing!" 

"If  I  only  knew  how  to  sing! — Je  t'ecoute!" 

' '  Brava !  brava !  You  '11  have  a  success  in  New 
York!  You  '11  come  on  the  stage,  they  '11  ask  you 
if  you  know  how  to  sing— and  you  '11  answer— how 
was  it  you  said  it?" 

"Je  t'ecoute  [I  hear  you]." 

' '  That  's  it !  You  must  also  bring  in  a  little  can-can 
—do  you  know  how  to  dance?" 

"There  's  a  question  for  you!"  And  with  the  point 
of  her  elegant  foot  Suzanne,  scarcely  seeming  to  touch 
it,  sent  the  shining  silk  hat  of  the  impresario  rolling 
on  the  ground. 

' '  Brava !  Perfect ! ' '  the  impresario  cried  in  an  ec- 
stasy of  joy.  "I  've  found  what  I  'm  looking  for— a 
typical  French  girl!" 

There  was  silence.  In  the  luminous  void  of  the  cir- 
cus, high  up  in  the  air  there  were  shining  things  in 
nickel— trapezes— and  a  rope  was  stretched  down  to  the 
ring. 

The  orchestra  burst  forth.  Helia  kissed  Soeurette 
and  passed  out  with  a  run  before  the  duke  and  Ca- 
racal. Her  mantle,  left  hanging  as  if  by  chance,  gave 
a  glimpse  of  a  rosy  shoulder.  On  the  threshold  of  the 


178  FATA  MORGANA 

ring  she  stopped  and  threw  off  the  mantle.  It  was 
like  the  unveiling  of  a  statue. 

She  wore  the  short  tunic  of  the  dancers  of  Perga- 
mus.  The  clinging  stuff  was  fastened  at  the  shoulder 
and  hung  to  a  point  on  each  side,  leaving  arms  and 
neck  and  the  upper  part  of  the  breast  uncovered;  a 
light  skirt  fell  straight  to  the  ankles. 

Helia  looked  at  the  public  long  enough  to  smile  and 
bow.  Then,  with  a  quick  spring,  she  leaped  to  the 
tightly  stretched  rope,  and  with  agile  bare  feet 
climbed  up  its  incline  to  the  platform  in  front  of  her 
trapeze.  The  light  brought  out  the  whiteness  of  her 
skin  and  her  red  cheeks,  and  glittered  back  from  a 
little  star-shaped  jewel  in  the  black  hair  above  her 
forehead. 

There  was  a  murmur  of  sympathy.  The  public  ap- 
plauded and  cried:  "Brava!"  Helia  had  done  nothing 
yet,  but  the  audience  was  already  won.  The  orches- 
tra, after  a  moment's  silence,  suddenly  broke  forth  and 
Helia  began. 

At  first,  to  accustom  the  public  to  the  notion  of 
the  movements,  she  leaped  upright  on  the  trapeze, 
which  swung  over  to  the  platform.  This  had  been 
foreseen.  The  three  trapezes  in  their  swing  almost 
touched  each  other.  They  were  hung  from  light  steel 
tubes  and  oscillated  like  a  single  mechanism,  without 
break  or  twist. 

Helia,  with  infinite  grace,  went  through  a  few  exer- 
cises. It  was  the  Waking  of  the  Goddess— the  first 
astonished  gestures  of  a  statue  called  to  life  by  the 
inspiration  of  a  Pygmalion.  Then  she  let  herself  fall 


A  PARISIAN  DfiBUT  179 

as  if  overcome  by  dizziness,  grasped  the  bar  as  she 
slipped  down  without  apparent  shock,  and — almost 
before  the  folds  of  her  gown  could  fall  back  grace- 
fully—she was  again  on  the  trapeze,  magnificent  and 
at  her  ease.  She  balanced  herself  gently  and  gave  a 
backward  leap  to  the  platform. 

The  public  broke  forth  in  applause.  It  felt  itself  in 
the  presence  of  a  healthy  and  robust  art.  This  was 
no  acrobat  limited  to  one  single  task,  with  legs  heavy 
by  dint  of  walking  on  the  ball,  or  shoulders  by  walk- 
ing on  the  hands.  But  here  was  the  accomplished 
gymnast— the  all-round  artiste,  with  her  muscles  obe- 
dient and  supple.  In  her  they  acclaimed  the  poetry 
of  the  body  and  the  melody  of  movement. 

To  give  Helia  a  moment's  rest,  Cemetery  entered, 
stumbled  at  the  entrance  of  the  ring,  fell  on  his  nose, 
rolled  over,  and  pulled  himself  up  by  the  rope.  His 
pantomime  expressed  delight  and  fear  at  the  specta- 
cle, high  above  him,  of  this  creature  of  light  and 
beauty.  His  pursed-up  mouth  and  rounded  eyes  had 
the  look  of  weeping.  He  walked  out  scratching  his 
wig. 

The  public  laughed. 

Helia  made  a  sign  and  looked  to  the  trapezes 
oscillating.  Suddenly,  to  a  joyous  strain,  she  leaped 
forward.  The  orchestra  seemed  to  uphold  her  in  her 
flight.  Nothing  could  be  more  graceful  than  the  pose 
of  her  skirt,  which  fluttered  from  her  ankles  like  a 
pair  of  wings.  Then  Helia  leaped  to  the  second  tra- 
peze just  as  the  two  bars  almost  touched.  Her  hand 
grasped  the  steel  tube  with  a  sudden  effort,  which 


180  FATA   MORGANA 

her  art  concealed.  Then,  letting  go,  she  continued 
her  dizzy  balancing  and  leaped  to  the  third  trapeze, 
as  calm  as  Fortune  on  her  Wheel.  She  had  crossed  the 
entire  space  of  the  circus  at  a  single  flight  and  fallen 
upright  on  the  other  platform  just  as  a  wingless  Victory 
finds  rest  on  the  pediment  of  a  temple. 

' '  Hurrah !    Brava !  brava ! ' ' 

Helia  cast  a  look  of  triumph  on  the  crowd. 

' '  "What  an  artiste ! ' '  the  duke  murmured.  Could 
this  really  be  she  who  but  a  moment  ago  was  talking 
like  any  comrade— this  prodigy  who  was  holding  the 
hall  enthralled,  and  bringing  in  a  crush  to  the  door 
all  the  stable  crowd  and  artistes,  gentlemen  in  evening 
dress,  and  the  whole  tumult  of  clowns? 

Sffiurette  looked  at  her  "big  sister"  in  wonder  and 
delight,  while  her  lips  seemed  to  murmur  a  prayer. 
Cemetery  entered  the  ring  again  to  proclaim  the  dis- 
tress of  man  and  his  unrealizable  desires.  He  jumped 
up  to  the  rope,  climbed  a  yard  or  two,  and  fell  back 
flat  on  the  ground.  Poum!  Come  on!  the  goddess 
seemed  to  say  to  him.  He  tried  again,  but  from  the 
height  of  his  Olympus  the  leader  of  the  orchestra 
thundered  him  down  with  a  stroke  of  the  bass-drum,  and 
he  fell  again — poum! — remaining  on  his  back  with 
his  four  limbs  wriggling  in  the  air.  Then  he  dragged 
himself  away,  broken  and  bruised,  with  halting  leg 
and  rubbing  his  shoulder,  while  above  him  Helia  ap- 
peared as  an  apparition,  a  shining  form  rid  of  the 
heaviness  of  the  flesh. 

Her  art  astonished  the  public.  There  was  no  per- 
ceptible effort,—  Jarret  laches,  high  leaps,  whirls,— there 


At  the  Circ-us 


A  PARISIAN  DEBUT  183 

was  nothing  of  all  that.  She  gave  the  sensation  of  the 
"something  never  seen  before."  Merely  by  the  way  in 
which  she  touched  her  trapeze  with  the  point  of  her 
bare  feet,  one  felt  that  she  was  free  from  rules— inven- 
tive, a  genius.  It  was  youth  and  beauty,  scorn  of  danger, 
and  courage  holding  spellbound  the  crowd  below  her. 

Her  artistic  intelligence  profited  even  by  obstacles. 
Thus  Helia  disdained  the  net;  but  the  law  imposed  it. 
She  found  a  means  of  making  it  serve  her  own  pur- 
poses. 

Just  as  she  was  ending,  a  globe  was  passed  up  to 
her,  and  she  placed  it  on  the  bar.  Then  she  stood  up- 
right on  it,  in  the  vast  oscillations  of  the  trapeze.  She 
was  like  a  goddess  soaring  in  space  with  the  earth 
under  her  feet. 

Then  Helia  stopped  motionless. 

The  orchestra  ceased;  the  lights  were  extinguished; 
and  suddenly,  like  a  star  falling  in  the  night,  Helia 
fell  down  to  the  net. 

There  was  a  moment's  anguish,  and  then  the  lights 
and  orchestra— lightning  and  thunder— began  again, 
as  in  a  storm.  Helia  was  on  the  ground,  offering,  with 
a  gesture,  her  heart  to  the  crowd. 

She  was  called  back  again  and  again.  Bouquets 
were  thrown  to  her — the  public  would  have  her  out 
once  more !  At  last  she  retired,  worn  out,  and,  putting 
off  her  stage-smile,  she  shook  hands  all  round. 

''There  '11  be  no  bouquets  left  for  the  marquesa," 
Suzanne  said.  "But  her  horse  may  be  accustomed, 
by  this  time,  to  the  bravos ! ' ' 

"You  must  be  tired,  Mademoiselle  Helia?"  the  duke 
asked. 


184  FATA  MORGANA 

"It  's  my  trade,"  said  Helia.  "We  smile  to  the 
public  all  the  same ;  it  would  not  be  nice  to  show  that 
it  is  work!" 

And,  with  a  gracious  salutation  to  the  duke,  she 
went  back  to  her  dressing-room. 

"You  have  n't  invited  her  to  supper!"  Caracal  re- 
marked to  the  duke,  when  she  had  gone. 

"I  didn't  think  of  it!" 

"Are  you  going  to  wait  till  she  comes  down?" 

"No,"  said  the  duke,  intimidated.  "I  shall  see  her 
later,  I  hope.  Your  valet  must  attend  to  it.  Let  's  go 
now.  There  's  nothing  to  see  after  Helia!" 


CHAPTER   III 

PHIL,    CHAMPION   OP    MISS    ROWBER 

'~W~  'LL  send  her  some  flowers  to-morrow,"  the  duke 

said,  once  they  were  outside. 

-JL      ' ' Monseigneur, ' '  replied  Caracal,  "allow  me  to 
tell  you,  you  've  been  below  •  the  mark  all  through ! ' ' 

"That  's  so!"  agreed  monseigneur. 

"For  a  reigning  duke,"  Caracal  went  on,  "a  grand 
seigneur,  a  Parisian  in  soul,  to  have  such  timidity!  It 
was  worth  while  dining  at  impossible  hours  and  pass- 
ing evenings  with  a  rheumatic  clown,  to  wind  up  in 
nothing ! ' ' 

"I  shall  have  my  revenge!"  the  duke  said.  "This 
evening  I  did  not— dare." 

"And  the  reason  is  this,"  Caracal  continued: 
"you  're  in  love  with  Helia!" 

"I!" 

"Yes,  monseigneur." 

"What  an  idea!" 

Just  then  Caracal  passed  into  the  two-colored  light 
of  an  apothecary's  shop,  red  on  one  side  and  green 
on  the  other;  his  single  eye-glass  darted  a  fantastic 
reflection  on  the  duke.  He  might  have  been  twin 
brother  to  Mephistopheles. 
185 


186  FATA  MORGANA 

"What  a  devil  of  a  man!"  thought  the  duke;  "you 
can  hide  nothing  from  him.  He  might  easily  be 
right!" 

Caracal  had  not  astonished  him.  In  love?  Perhaps 
'he  was,  since  others  were  noticing  it.  It  is  true  that 
Caracal  was  not  exactly  "others,"  powerful  psychol- 
ogist and  searcher  of  hearts  and  brains  as  he  was. 
But  even  Caracal  would  have  to  confess  himself  beaten 
by  a  Duke  of  Morgania  parading  with  a  circus  star- 
that  would  be  Parisian  enough!  He  would  no  longer 
accuse  him  of  inheriting  the  prejudices  of  Morgania, 
nor  of  believing  in  the  predictions  of  the  mad  old 
witch ! 

The  duke  blushed  at  his  own  scruples.  He  envied 
Caracal's  effrontery. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  have  been  below 
the  mark  all  through.  For  a  grand  seigneur  like  me 
to  be  as  timid  as  a  college-boy  is  absurd.  Helia  ought 
to  be  for  me  simply  an  episode — a  pastime — and  no- 
thing more." 

All  these  ideas  had  come  to  him  while  he  was  light- 
ing his  cigarette,  and  Caracal,  red  and  green,  was 
darting  on  him  the  reflection  of  his  monocle. 

"In  love  with  Helia?"  the  duke  said  aloud,  flat- 
tered that  Caracal  had  such  an  opinion  of  him,  "ma 
foi,  why  not  ? ' ' 

"You  are  quite  right,"  answered  Caracal.  "It  will 
increase  your  prestige.  Besides,  you  '11  see  her  at 
supper.  My  valet  will  hand  her  the  invitation.  Helia 
would  rather  go  off  alone,  but  she  will  come  with 
us.  Phil  will  be  of  the  party,  too!" 


PHIL,  CHAMPION  OF  MISS  ROWBER  187 

""Well,  come  along!  We  have  an  hour  to  wait.  Let  's 
go  in  somewhere,"  said  the  duke. 

They  were  just  coming  into  the  Place  Blanche.  A 
cafe,  through  its  open  doors,  wrapped  them  round  with 
the  smell  of  alcohol.  Before  them  a  red-winged  mill 
seemed  grinding  fire  and  flame.  Beyond,  streets  went 
climbing  up  Montmartre,  mountain  of  guano.  Right 
and  left,  along  the  Boulevard,  incredible  dens  held  out 
their  blazing  signs  in  line,  like  the  "Mene,  mene,  tekel, 
upharsin"  of  monstrous  nights. 

"Here  is  a  cabaret  artistique;  let  's  go  in,"  said 
Caracal ;  "  it  's  immense ! ' ' 

' '  Come  on ! "  assented  the  duke. 

The  atmosphere,  as  of  a  den  of  animals,  caught 
them  by  the  throat.  The  conversations  were  deafen- 
ing, but  the  voice  of  the  proprietor  rose  above  the 
clamor.  He  welcomed  visitors,  even  ladies,  with  a 
torrent  of  insults.  It  was  the  height  of  chic  to  receive 
his  avalanche  of  insolence  with  a  smiling  face. 

"What  do  these  two  carrion  come  for?"  he  cried, 
pointing  to  Caracal  and  the  duke,  who,  in  his  surprise, 
was  on  the  point  of  getting  angry,  to  the  great  joy 
of  the  public. 

"Let  's  sit  in  this  corner;  we  can  talk  better,"  Cara- 
cal said  to  him,  as  much  at  his  ease  in  this  asphyxi- 
ating air  as  a  fish  in  water.  They  sat  down  and  the 
brutal  voice  and  the  clamors  of  the  public  found  occu- 
pation elsewhere. 

"Talk?"  asked  the  duke.  "What  in  the  world 
should  we  talk  about  here?" 

"About  Helia,"  answered  Caracal;  "here  's  to  your 
10 


188  FATA  MORGANA 

amours,  monseigneur ! ' '  And  he  raised  the  glass  which 
a  waiter,  dressed  like  an  Academician,  had  brought 
him. 

"Caracal!"  said  the  duke,  laughing,  "we  no  longer 
live  in  the  times  when  kings  espoused  shepherdesses." 

"But  dukes,  monseigneur,  still  pay  their  court  to 
danseuses,"  Caracal  went  on.  "It  's  a  tendency  of  the 
aristocracy." 

"Why?"  asked  the  duke. 

"Because  the  common  run  of  men,  when  they 
court  a  woman,  make  account  of  what  others  think 
of  her ;  whereas  a  grand  seigneur  does  n  't  care  for 
the  opinion  of  the  public  and  chooses  what  pleases 
him." 

"That  's  true!"  said  the  duke. 

"I  can  cite  you  a  dozen  examples,"  Caracal  con- 
tinued. "There  's  Clotilde  Loisset,  the  circus-rider,  who 
is  an  Hungarian  princess  to-day;  Chelli,  the  danseuse, 
married  to  a  Russian  count  who  is  Minister  of  State ; 
Lord  Billy,  betrothed  to  an  equilibrist;  the  Countess  of 
Landsfeldt,  Baroness  Rosenthal—  you  know  well  who 
they  were.  And  you  see  what  they  are  now,  thanks  to 
the  caprice  of  some  Highness!  Grandees,  monseigneur, 
are  like  those  kings  who  acknowledge  no  rank  but  that 
which  they  themselves  create." 

"Well  said,  Caracal!" 

The  duke,  when  his  first  surprise  had  passed,  found 
it  amusing  to  talk  confidentially  in  such  a  moral  pig- 
pen. It  was  so  amusing,  even,  that  he  forgot  to  ask 
himself  what  possible  interest  Caracal  could  have  to 
see  him  in  love  with  Helia. 


PHIL,   CHAMPION  OF  MISS  ROWRER  189 

"Will  you  come  now,  Caracal?  Phil  must  be  wait- 
ing for  us." 

"Helia,  too!"  said  Caracal. 

They  left  the  place. 

"We  are  leaving  just  as  it  is  becoming  interesting," 
Caracal  sighed.  "It  's  over  there  we  are  to  meet," 
he  added,  pointing  to  the  terrace  of  a  cafe  inundated 
with  light. 

They  had  not  gone  twenty  steps  before  a  voice 
called  to  them.  It  was  Phil's. 

"Good  evening,  Monsieur  le  Due!  Good  evening, 
M.  Caracal!" 

"Good  evening,  Phil!"  answered  Caracal.  "Eh 
bienf  How  's  your  American  Club  exposition?  In- 
teresting? Painting  in  the  grand  style?  American 
painting,  eh!  eh!  done  by  machinery,  of  course? 
I  don't  say  that  for  you,  cher  ami!" 

"And  how  is  your  novel,  'The  House  of  Glass'?"  re- 
torted Phil,  leaving  painting  for  literature.  "You 
were  just  now  in  search  of  human  documents.  Don't 
say  no ;  I  saw  you !  You  're  always  thinking  about  it  ?  " 

' '  Always,  my  dear  friend,  always !  But  what 
makes  you  think  so?" 

"Because  you  were  looking  in  the  gutter,"  said 
Phil. 

Caracal  made  a  grimace ;  but  when  they  got  to  the 
cafe  his  self-love  had  a  satisfaction  which  brought 
back  his  smiles.  Before  the  terrace,  encumbered 
with  people,  his  valet  was  awaiting  him,  telegrams 
in  hand.  This  valet  was  a  part  of  his  pride  of  life; 
a  good  fellow  employed  in  a  shop  all  day  long,  and 


190  FATA   MORGANA 

free  in  the  evening.  Caracal  dressed  him  up  in  a 
tail  coat  with  gilt  buttons,  and  a  high  hat,  and  had 
him  bring  his  correspondence  to  the  cafe  every  night, 
as  if  he  were  a  man  overwhelmed  with  invitations  and 
billets-doux. 

"Mademoiselle  Helia  will  not  come  this  evening," 
the  valet  announced. 

"Why  not?"  Caracal  asked,  interrupting  the  read- 
ing of  his  despatches,  which  he  had  good  reasons  for 
knowing  by  heart. 

"Mademoiselle  Helia  did  not  say  why.  Made- 
moiselle only  said  that  she  would  not  come.  She  has 
gone  out  with  M.  Socrate." 

"Very  well!"  said  Caracal,  dismissing  his  valet. 

"With  Socrate!    Poor  Helia!"  thought  Phil. 

"Well,  messieurs,  it  will  be  less  gay  without  a 
lady, ' '  Caracal  observed ;  ' '  but  since  we  are  here,  let  's 
do  Montmartre,  will  you?" 

"Come  with  us,"  said  the  duke. 

So  all  three  "did"  Montmartre. 

Caracal  knew  it  all  thoroughly.  The  cabaret  was 
his  home.  He  entered  offhand;  he  had  his  own  man- 
ner of  opening  the  door  and  bidding  a  friendly  good 
day  to  the  proprietor  amid  the  tables. 

"There  's  Caracal!"  These  words,  pronounced  in 
the  smoke  of  these  little  cafes  by  some  decadent  ac- 
companied by  a  painted  girl,  swelled  his  heart  with 
pride.  Even  the  duke  envied  him  this  quasi-royalty 
which  Paris  confers  on  its  elect. 

Caracal  loved  the  cabaret  rosses,  where  some  rick- 
ety little  monsieur  advances  on  the  platform,  opens 


PHIL,   CHAMPION  OF  MISS  ROWRER  191 

his  snarling  mouth  and,  hammering  his  words  that  not 
a  syllable  may  be  lost,  narrates  his  little  nastiness  to  the 
public. 

"It  's  a  new  school,"  Caracal  explained.  "Much 
more  advanced  than  the  decadents!  It  's  educating 
the  public  up  to  itself  little  by  little.  It  has  taken 
frankly  for  its  flag  the  exact  word  in  all  its  crudity." 

"Say,  rather,  the  dirty  word,"  said  Phil. 

Wherever  they  went  there  was  the  same  atmo- 
sphere of  infection.  You  would  have  said  that,  camp- 
ing in  modern  Paris,  there  was  a  vtile  chaude  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  where  "verolez  tres  pretieultx"  made 
high  festival  with  ribald  companions.  The  look  of  the 
places  was  repulsive.  In  one  they  were  served  by 
mock  galley-slaves  dragging  their  chains  behind  them. 
In  another  there  were  grave-diggers,  and  they  sat  by 
coffins,  and  green  flames  burned  inside  of  skulls. 

"You,  fever-patient,  what  do  you  take?"  the  waiter 
said  to  the  customer;  "and  you,  consumptive?  What 
do  you  drink,  moribund?" 

And  then  the  fever-patient  or  the  moribund — some 
ruddy  young  man  from  Scotland — would  answer  tim- 
idly :"0une  lock." 

"That  gives  a  high  idea  of  Paris,"  Phil  said,  as  they 
went  out.  To  him  it  all  seemed  stupid.  What  a  con- 
trast for  him,  after  an  evening  passed  with  Ethel,  were 
these  pestiferous  dives  with  their  brute  public,  like  pigs 
at  the  fattening!  The  pitiful  sight  recalled  to  him  the 
weak-willed  days  of  the  past,  the  evenings  at  the  Deux 
Magots,  the  masterpieces  drawn  in  pencil  on  cafe  tables 
and  wiped  off  with  a  rag. 


192  FATA  MORGANA 

Caracal  made  a  study  of  the  different  cabarets,  pre- 
ferring this  one  to  that  and  drawing  a  dilletante's 
distinctions  between  their  poets  and  singers. 

"Such  an  one  enunciates  well.  Have  you  heard  his 
ballad  of  'The  Drunkard  and  the  Rotting  Dog'?  That 
is  art!" 

And  with  an  elegant  gesture  he  fixed  the  monocle 
in  his  eye.  Phil  examined  Caracal  and  tried  to  dis- 
cern in  his  face  the  low  instincts,  the  hatreds,  the 
thumb-marks  of  degeneracy.  He  saw  nothing  but  self- 
satisfaction. 

They  had  arrived  at  The  Pustule,  the  latest  cabaret 
artistique. 

"Let  's  go  in!"  Caracal  proposed.  "It  shall  be  the 
last." 

"I  shall  leave  you  afterward,"  said  Phil. 

They  entered.  A  blonde  girl,  with  a  thin,  colorless 
voice  and  childish  gestures  and  little  smirks,  was  singing : 

"  Les  bosquets  du  Bois  d'Boulogne 
Ous'  qu  on  fait  Zizi  pan  pan !  " 

Her  place  was  taken  by  a  chansonnier  rosse,  fat  and 
bald.  This  one  began  at  once,  in  an  aggressive  tone,  a 
political  satire.  What?  there  was  a  couplet  against 
Americans — Richard  the  Lion-hearted  again,  and  then 
a  direct  allusion  to  a  certain  American  miss — in  this 
sewer ! 

Phil  rose  up,  pale  with  anger.  He  would  have 
smashed  things,  and  shut  the  mouth  of  the  fat  brute 
bellowing  on  the  stage;  but  suddenly  he  thought  that 


PHIL,   CHAMPION  OF  MISS  ROWRER  195 

he  might  compromise  Miss  Rowrer.  He  sat  down, 
clenching  his  fist. 

"I  'd  like  to  know  who  writes  such  infamous 
songs ! "  he  said  to  Caracal. 

"Bah,  never  mind!  Calm  yourself!"  Caracal  an- 
swered, with  sudden  uneasiness.  "Never  mind;  it  's 
not  worth  while.  No  one  understands ! ' ' 

"What  a  set  of  fools!"  Phil  went  on.  "I  'm  going 
away;  I  choke  here!" 

"We  '11  go  with  you,"  added  the  Duke  of  Morgania. 

A  moment  later  Phil  took  his  leave  of  the  duke  and 
Caracal,  to  return  home.  From  the  other  side  of  the 
street  he  saw  Caracal  gesticulating  and  explaining 
modern  art  to  the  duke.  Fragmentary  sentences 
reached  his  ear:  " Chansonniers  rosses—oS.  with  all 
masks— the  future  of  poetry— poetry  voyez-vous— 
just  like  the  rose,  sprouts  from  the  dunghill." 


CHAPTER   IV 

'TWIXT    DOG   AND    POET 

PHIL  went  his  way,  leaving  the  duke  and  Caracal 
behind  him. 
He  was  angry  with  himself  for  having  come. 
Especially  he  was  frightened  at  the  feeling  which  had 
just  been  urging  him  to  punish  the  singer  on  the  stage. 
There  was  something  more  in  it  than  the  natural  indig- 
nation of  an  upright  heart  in  presence  of  a  low  action. 
He  felt  it  a  hundred  times  more  than  he  would  have 
done  for  a  personal  insult.     He  stood  forth  revealed 
to  himself  as  the  champion  of  Miss  Rowrer. 

On  the  whole,  the  verses  were  stupid  rather  than 
malignant;  but  it  had  been  stronger  than  he— an  ex- 
plosion, in  a  way,  of  a  growing  passion.  He  resolved 
to  stop  short  on  this  dangerous  descent  and  not  allow 
himself  to  be  lured  on  by  an  impossible  love,  the  very 
thought  of  which  seemed  to  him  worthy  of  blame. 

Phil  was  not  content  with  his  evening,  so  well  begun 
and  so  ill  ended. 

"They  '11  not  catch  me  again  doing  Montmartre  with 

Caracal  and  the  duke,"  he  said  to  himself.     "I  was 

wrong  to  go  there  to-night.    I  have  become  certain  that 

Helia  is  letting  herself  be  courted  by  Socrate.    To  have 

196 


'TWIXT   DOG  AND  POET  197 

come  down  like  that — she  whom  I  knew  so  reserved 
and  sweet !  And  I  know  something  else,  too.  I  have 
to  stop  flirting  with  Miss  Rowrer — perhaps  even  stop 
seeing  her,  poor  fool  that  I  am!" 

And  Phil  went  his  way  with  lowered  head,  absorbed 
in  his  own  reflections. 

Phil's  idea  was  right  so  far  as  Miss  Rowrer  was 
concerned.  He  might  really  have  been  in  danger.  But 
he  was  mistaken  in  his  appreciation  of  Helia,  for  she 
had  not  quit  the  circus  with  Socrate.  Socrate  had  fol- 
lowed her,  that  was  all — Suzanne  having  taken  away 
Soeurette  immediately  after  the  departure  of  the  duke 
and  Caracal.  Helia,  worn  out  with  fatigue,  went  away 
much  later  on  the  arm  of  old  Cemetery. 

She  was  full  of  deference  for  the  man  who  had  made 
her  an  artiste,  and  she  accompanied  him  back  to  his 
hotel.  Socrate  walked  alongside,  without  the  least 
emotion  at  the  sight  of  this  Antigone  protecting  her 
(Edipus ;  rather,  he  was  furious  that  she  should  lose 
her  time  with  such  a  doddard;  but  he  had  nothing  to 
say  about  it !  Helia  would  not  have  understood,  and 
Socrate  remembered  spitefully  that  the  duke  and 
Caracal  were  cooling  their  heels  in  vain  expectation 
of  her. 

Afterward  Socrate  saw  her  home.  He  had  so  many 
things  to  say  to  her— things  he  dared  not  utter. 

However,  at  the  moment  of  taking  leave  he  expressed 
a  wish  to  go  in,  in  order  to  speak  more  freely. 

"No,  thank  you!"  said  Helia;  "you  would  wake 
So3urette,  who  is  already  in  bed." 

"But-" 


198  FATA  MORGANA 

"Besides,  you  have  your  own  work."  And  she  shut 
the  door  in  his  face. 

Socrate,  in  a  rage,  remained  outside.  What  he  could 
not  say  this  evening  he  would  say  to-morrow;  so  be  it! 
But  that  he — Socrate,  poet,  thinker,  painter,  sculptor, 
and  musician — should  be  so  treated  by  this  little  moun- 
tebank—what a  humiliation!  He  felt  that  he  wanted 
to  break  something.  A  wandering  dog  passed  by,  and 
with  all  his  strength  he  gave  him  a  kick  in  the  ribs. 

"There,  put  that  in  your  pocket!" 

"And  you  take  that!"  And  Socrate  received  a 
heavy  blow,  with  which  he  rolled  to  the  ground. 

It  seemed  to  him  as  he  fell  that  he  flung  out  his  arms 
to  protect  himself,  and  that  his  fist  came  in  contact  with 
a  head.  When  he  was  stretched  out  on  the  pavement 
he  saw  standing  on  the  curbstone  a  man,  motionless  and 
looking  at  him.  They  were  both  in  the  light  of  a  street- 
lamp.  Suddenly  Socrate  recognized  Phil. 

In  fact,  Phil  had  been  coming  down  the  street  just 
as  Socrate  kicked  the  poor  animal.  In  his  indignation 
Phil  punished  the  brute,  and  then  immediately  recog- 
nized in  him  Socrate,  who,  of  course,  so  he  thought, 
was  coming  from  Helia. 

Socrate  would  have  jumped  on  Phil,  but  he  had 
neither  knife  nor  revolver.  So  he  remained  on  the 
pavement,  crazy  with  impotent  rage.  Phil,  remaining 
calm,  picked  up  his  hat,  which  had  fallen  in  the  scuffle. 
He  waited.  But  as  the  thinker  contented  himself  with 
groaning,  he  went  his  way  without  even  a  look  behind. 

"Helia!  Helia!"  he  thought  within  himself,  "that 
you  should  receive  such  a  creature!" 


(Ar 


1  Suddenly  Socrate  recognized  Phil " 


CHAPTER  V 

LITTLE    SISTER    OF    A    STAB 

THE  next  day  Helia  was  still  sleeping  when  Sceur- 
ette  aroused  her.    The  little  one  was  trotting  along 
the  carpet  in  her  bare  feet,  talking  and  laughing 
to  herself  in  the  sunny  room.     It  was  her  great  happi- 
ness in  the  morning  to  be  up  first  and  take  her  big 
sister  by  surprise.     She  climbed  on  the  bed  and  awoke 
her  with  a  good  kiss  on  the  cheek. 

"Ah,  how  you  frightened  me!"  cried  Helia,  pre- 
tending fear. 

Sceurette  burst  into  laughter. 

"Let  me  lie  beside  you;  I  '11  let  you  sleep!" 

"Are  you  sleeping?"  the  little  one  asked  a  moment 
later.  "Ah,  you  see,  you  're  not  sleeping.  Eh  bienl  tell 
me  a  story ! ' ' 

"You  know,"  replied  Helia,  "if  you  're  not  good 
you  sha'n't  do  the  trapeze  to-day." 

This  threat  quieted  Soeurette. 

Helia  did  not  wish  to  make  a  gymnast  of  her.  Ah. 
no !  She  dreamed  of  other  things  for  her — anything 
except  that!  But  she  had  taught  her  a  few  turns  to 
develop  her,  and  the  little  girl  took  the  greatest  plea- 
sure in  it. 

201 


202  FATA  MORGANA 

Soon,  won  by  the  warmth  of  the  bed,  Soeurette  fell 
asleep.  Helia  arose  gently  and  finished  waking  herself 
with  an  invigorating  bath  in  cold  water.  Then  she  put 
on  her  great  peignoir,  tying  the  girdle  around  her 
waist.  To  keep  herself  supple  she  went  through  two  or 
three  of  her  flections,  bending  herself  backward,  for- 
ward, turning  her  bust  on  her  haunches,  breathing 
again  and  again  long  and  deep.  The  sleeves  of  her 
peignoir  flew  loose  as  she  raised  her  arms,  like  a  statu- 
ette from  Tanagra  come  to  life. 

Then  she  finished  dressing,  for  she  hated  wrappers, 
in  which  the  body  grows  soft.  She  put  on  her  apron, 
and  made  tea  in  the  samovar  which  Phil  had  given  her, 
just  as  he  had  given  Suzanne  a  splendid  salad-bowl. 
Tea  was  Helia 's  triumph,  as  Suzanne's  was  salad;  there 
was  no  disputing  it! 

The  concierge  brought  up  the  fresh  bread,  the  butter, 
and  buns;  and  she  cut  her  tartines  thinking  of  other 
things.  She  would  put  aside  savings  for  Soeurette.  She 
would  teach  her;  have  her  taught  the  piano — she 
scarcely  knew  what — but  not  her  own  trade!  The  be- 
ginnings were  too  hard;  yet  if  it  had  not  been  for  her 
profession  would  she  ever  have  known  Phil?  It  would 
have  been  better  not,  perhaps;  who  knows?  She  owed 
him  great  joy— and  grief  as  well!  To  think  that  he 
had  not  come  to  see  her  first  night  at  the  Cirque! 

The  idea  came  to  her  that  she  might  never  live  out 
her  love-romance  to  the  end,  and  her  heart  swelled 
within  her.  But  with  a  gesture  she  put  away  these 
haunting  thoughts,  and  finished  preparing  the  bread 
and  butter.  When  the  breakfast  was  ready  she  awoke 
her  little  sister. 


LITTLE  SISTER  OF  A  STAR  203 

"Up,  and  quickly,  dear  one!  the  tea  is  ready!" 

Sceurette  jumped  from  the  bed,  stuck  her  little  feet 
into  her  big  sister's  slippers,  and  did  not  linger  playing 
on  the  carpet. 

Seated  on  a  chair  made  higher  by  a  great  book  which 
she  would  go  to  turning  over  presently,  she  already  had 
her  nose  in  her  cup.  Her  favorite  doll,  Glanrhyd,  was 
at  Phil 's  studio ;  he  was  to  repaint  the  face,  which  had 
been  damaged  by  a  fall.  Other  dolls  were  lying  on  the 
floor,  but  they  were  not  Glanrhyd !  Glanrhyd  had  been 
given  her  by  Helia,  who  had  cherished  it  ever  since 
her  own  childhood.  In  spite  of  its  absence,  Sceurette 
was  greatly  preoccupied  with  her  bread  and  butter  and 
tea.  She  had  scarcely  the  time  to  smile  at  her  big  sister 
and  ask  her  questions. 

"What  is  that— that  medal?" 

Helia  had  just  been  taking  out  of  her  trunk  and 
hanging  on  the  wall  mementos  of  her  life,  to  which  she 
was  much  attached.  Her  little  sister  was  not  acquainted 
with  these  objects. 

"And  that,  and  that?"  Soeurette  ran  on,  pointing 
to  a  gilt-paper  wreath,  to  a  group  of  gymnasts  with 
Helia  in  the  foreground,  to  still  other  things. 

"And  that?"  she  added,  pointing  to  the  photograph 
of  a  young  girl  seated  on  a  kind  of  throne  with  a 
young  man  at  her  feet. 

"It  's  you  and  Phil!"  Soeurette  remarked. 

"That  might  be,"  answered  Helia.  "Eat  in  peace, 
and  keep  quiet!" 

"No;  tell  me  first  what  that  is?"  Soeurette  asked, 
pointing  to  another  photograph.  "Barracks  in  a 
garden?" 


204  FATA   MORGANA 

"It  's  not  barracks,  Sceurette;  it  's  the  palace  of  the 
Duchess  of  Glanrhyd,  near  London." 

' '  Is  it  the  doll 's  palace  ? ' ' 

"No,"  Helia  said;  "but  the  duchess  gave  me  the 
doll." 

"Do  you  know  the  duchess?" 

"When  I  was  in  England  long  ago  I  played  in  her 
park  at  a  benefit  for  the  Society  for  the  Protection  of 
Children  and  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  the  Weak." 

"Oh,  what  is  that,  tell  me — the  protection  of  chil- 
dren?" So3urette  demanded. 

"I  can't  explain  to  you;  you  would  not  understand." 

Helia  looked  at  the  photograph  and  remembered  the 
day.  "I  will  send  you  a  pretty  present,"  the  duchess 
had  said  to  her,  caressing  her  with  her  gloved  hand. 
And,  in  fact,  to  Kennington  Avenue,  where  Helia  was 
then  living  with  Cemetery,  they  brought  her  a  magnifi- 
cent doll  and  pounds  of  bonbons;  but  Helia  enjoyed 
neither  them  nor  the  doll. 

"It  will  fatten  you!"  Cemetery  said,  as  he  locked 
up  the  bonbons.  "There  is  no  strength  in  them."  He 
put  the  doll  in  a  cupboard,  adding:  "You  have  no  time 
to  play,  either,  except  on  Sunday.  Come,  to  work!" 

"Say,  big  sister,"  asked  Soeurette,  who  was  finishing 
her  bun,  "what  is  cruelty  to  children?  And  is  there 
cruelty  to  big  persons  ?  Tell  me ! ' ' 

"Come  and  kiss  me.  You  will  know  later  on;  and 
now,  go  and  play!" 

' '  Say,  big  sister,  Glanrhyd  does  n  't  come  back.  Must 
I  write  to  her  ? ' ' 

"Write  if  you  wish,  darling." 


To  whom  shall  I  write? ' " 


LITTLE   SISTER  OF  A  STAR  207 

This  was  quite  an  affair.  Sceurette  prepared  her 
table  behind  a  screen  in  the  "doll's  room";  but  the 
paper  was  too  large — Glanrhyd  would  never  be  able 
to  read  it.  Helia  had  to  cut  it  down  to  the  proper 
size.  At  last,  having  got  seated,  Sceurette,  by  way  of 
introduction,  stuck  out  her  tongue,  rolled  her  head 
from  right  to  left,  and  began. 

"Well,  Sreurette  is  busy,"  Helia  said  to  herself. 
"She  will  leave  me  a  little  peace." 

"Say,  big  sister,  does  a  doll  answer?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Helia. 

"Will  Monsieur  Phil  answer?"  Sosurette  asked. 

"Let  Monsieur  Phil  alone.  He  has  something  else  to 
do!" 

"But,  big  sister,  it  used  to  be  always  Phil  here  and 
Phil  there;  you  weren't  afraid  to  speak  of  him!" 

"Well,  I  won't  have  it!"  Helia  replied  after  a  mo- 
ment's silence. 

"Why?" 

"Because—" 

"To  whom  shall  I  write,  then?" 

"I  don't  know,  my  darling." 

Sosurette  reflected  for  a  moment,  biting  her  pen- 
holder. 

"How  do  you  write  'Little  Jesus' — say?  Is  it  one 
word  or  two  words?" 

"Good!"  thought  Helia.  "Now  she  's  writing  to  the 
Little  Jesus." 

But  some  one  came  to  divert  their  attention.  There 
was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  Socrate  came  in  with  a 
cheek  red  and  limping  slightly. 


208  FATA   MORGANA 

Helia  asked  what  was  the  matter. 

"Oh,  last  evening,  after  leaving  you,  I  had  a  fall.  It 
is  nothing,"  Socrate  hastened  to  say,  not  wishing  to 
tell  of  his  affair  with  Phil ;  and  for  a  good  reason. 

"You  must  have  hit  something  hard,"  Helia  said. 

"Oh!"  Socrate  went  on,  in  a  rage  at  his  red  cheek 
and  limping  leg,  "oh,  why  are  you  always  spoiling 
that  little  girl?  Cakes  and  dolls!  Cakes  only  fatten 
her,  and  dolls  are  good  only  for  Sunday ! ' ' 

Helia  was  struck  by  the  remark  which  brought  back 
word  for  word  Cemetery's  observations.  It  was  of  no 
importance,  of  course;  it  was  one  of  Socrate 's  jokes— 
the  proof  was  that  he  was  smiling.  But  it  displeased 
Helia,  who  had  become  very  reserved  with  him,  and 
distrusted  him  a  little.  She  esteemed  him  only  for 
the  nature  of  his  work.  It  seemed  to  Helia  that  by 
taking  interest  in  an  "intelligence"  she  redeemed  in 
some  way  the  roughness  of  her  trade  as  a  gymnast.  She 
raised  herself  in  her  own  eyes.  So  she  helped  Socrate, 
half  through  charity  and  half  out  of  pride. 

Socrate,  knowing  Helia 's  goodness,  looked  forward 
to  the  time  when  he  should  have  supplanted  in  her  heart 
the  remembrance  of  Phil.  But  he  soon  discovered 
Helia 's  real  feelings,  and  was  all  the  angrier  because  he 
had  to  hide  his  wrath.  When  he  described  to  her  the 
plan  of  his  next  poem,  or  the  picture  that  he  was  al- 
ways "going  to  do,"  he  was  thinking  all  the  while  of 
other  things  than  his  pictures  and  poems. 

What!  He  was  not  to  be  the  husband  of  Helia? 
She  was  to  marry  some  one  else?  And  he,  Socrate, 
would  not  have  the  signing  of  contracts  with  her  direc- 


LITTLE  SISTER  OF  A  STAE  209 

tors,  the  discussing  of  prices,  and  the  pocketing  of  the 
money?  Some  one  else  was  to  enjoy  all  that? 

What  a  pleasant  life  his  would  be  if  he  should  marry 
Helia!  Oh,  it  was  very  simple.  First  of  all,  he  'd 
set  Sceurette  to  work,  steady !  They  might  give  her 
bonbons  and  dolls;  they  would  all  go  under  lock  and 
key,  and  then— to  work!  In  the  morning,  while  he 
would  go  to  the  cafe  and  take  his  eye-opener,  Helia 
and  the  little  one  would  do  their  dumb-bells,  to  get 
under  way  for  rehearsal.  And  then— ouste!— three 
hours'  exercise  in  the  morning,  and  three  in  the  after- 
noon. Then  he  would  show  what  was  in  him!  He 
would  encourage  with  a  gesture  or  threaten  with  a 
look;  sometimes  he  might  let  fall  a  "Very  good"  for 
Helia,  or  "It  doesn't  go;  begin  again!"  for  .the  little 
one.  In  his  conception  of  himself  as  professor  he  had 
always  a  cigar  between  his  teeth,  diamond  buttons  on 
his  cuffs  turned  up  to  the  elbows,  and  all  around  him 
papers  and  notices  talking  of  the  glory  of  this  wife 
of  his — the  star. 

To  think  that  he  was  not  to  be  Helia 's  husband !  The 
very  idea  made  him  turn  over  in  his  head  all  sorts  of 
sinister  projects. 

Socrate  tried  to  be  friendly  with  Sceurette. 

' '  Good  day,  Mile.  Princesse !  Will  you  kiss  me,  Mile. 
Princesse  ? ' ' 

"No!"  Sceurette  answered.  "Your  red  cheek  makes 
me  afraid.  You  look  like  a  bogy  man ! ' ' 

"Now,  now,  Sceurette!"  Helia  said.  "Be  polite,  dar- 
ling. M.  Socrate  fell  down;  it  wasn't  his  fault.  Don't 
you  know  that  poets  walk  along  looking  at  the  stars?" 


210  FATA  MORGANA 

"Not  at  the  stars,  but  at  one  star,  Mile.  Helia.  You 
know  the  one  I  mean ! ' ' 

"Now  you  are  here,  Socrate,  you  can  do  me  a  favor," 
Helia  interrupted,  not  even  listening  to  his  compli- 
ments. "First,  throw  these  letters  for  me  into  the 
waste-basket. ' ' 

"Must  I  throw  that  of  Mile,  la  Princesse  also?  What 
is  she  writing  there?  Can  I  see?" 

"No!"  Sceurette  answered. 

"Is  it  a  secret?  Well,  I  won't  insist,"  Socrate  said, 
and  straightway  stretched  his  neck  over  the  screen  and 
read: 

"To  the  Little  Jesus:  They  say,  Little  Jesus,  that  up  there  in 
heaven  you  have  a  wonderful  bazaar,  with  all  the  playthings 
which  are  in  all  the  earth  and  some  that  are  not.  There  is  no 
doubt  of  it,  Little  Jesus,  is  there?  Well,  then,  cure  Glanrhyd 
and  send  me  a  little  white  dog— a  curly  one  that  barks.  I  'd 
like  to  have  a  doll  dressed  for  her  wedding,  and  a  little  china 
table  service;  and  let  it  be  pretty — very,  very  pretty!" 

"A  letter  to  Little  Jesus?"  Socrate  thought  to  him- 
self. "There  's  a  letter  which  won't  be  delivered!" 

Meanwhile   Helia  was   reading  her  morning's  mail. 
There  was  nothing  new  in  it ;  she  had  received  hundreds 
of  such  letters.    "Mademoiselle,  pardon  me,  if  I  dare— 
"Mademoiselle,  will  you  allow  an  admirer  of  your  tal- 
ent and  your  beauty—"    And  so  on,  and  so  forth. 

Helia  did  not  even  read  them  through  to  the  end. 
She  blushed,  not  with  shame,  but  with  pity  for  such 
foolish  adorers. 

' '  Do  they  take  me  for  a  toy  ?  Into  the  basket ! ' '  And 
she  held  out  the  letters  to  Socrate. 


LITTLE  SISTER  OF  A   STAB  211 

"Why,  she  is  crazy!"  Socrate  thought.  "All  these 
letters — they  M  be  magnificent  for  blackmailing!" 

"You  do  wrong  to  destroy  them!"  Socrate  said  aloud. 
"Some  of  them  are,  perhaps,  in  earnest." 

"How  is  that?"  Helia  said,  looking  at  him.  "What 
do  you  mean?" 

"I— why— " 

Helia 's  uprightness  disarmed  him.  She  would  never 
understand  anything!  Was  it  possible  to  be  so  naive? 
Socrate  was  exasperated  by  it. 

"By  dint  of  shutting  yourself  out  from  everybody, 
you  '11  soon  have  no  more  friends,"  he  said,  trying  to  be 
insinuating.  "Who  knows  if  there  's  not  a  letter  from 
the  duke  there?" 

"And  what  then?"  Helia  said,  as  she  arose. 

"He  is,  perhaps,  your  best  friend,"  Socrate  an- 
swered. "A  powerful  protector  like  him — " 

"What!" 

"Of  course,  next  to  Monsieur  Phil,"  he  went  on,  with 
the  perspiration  starting  out  on  his  forehead.  "But 
Monsieur  Phil  is  too  busy!  They  say,  even—"  And 
Socrate  hunted  for  a  word  with  which  to  end  his  em- 
barrassment, and  he  had  to  be  inventive  and  prompt. 

"What  is  it  they  say?"  Helia  asked. 

"That  he  is  going  to  marry." 

Helia  had  too  great  a  habit  of  controlling  her  nerves, 
too  much  mastery  of  herself,  and  too  much  pride,  to 
show  her  pain.  Socrate  had  not  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
her  turn  pale.  She  appeared  to  be  taken  up  with  Soeur- 
ette,  in  her  corner. 

"Of  course,"  was  Helia 's  reply.    "And  now  do  this 


212  FATA  MORGANA 

errand  for  me,  will  you,  Socrate?  Here  is  the  money," 
she  added,  explaining  what  she  wished.  "Pay— and 
keep  what  's  left  over." 

She  accompanied  him  to  the  door.  Her  limbs  were 
trembling  and  she  seemed  to  walk  on  cotton.  There 
was  a  roaring  in  her  ears.  She  turned  and  fell  into  a 
chair. 

Phil  was  to  marry !  Everything  seemed  crumbling 
around  her,  her  dreams  for  the  future,  her  castles  in 
Spain,  burying  her  in  their  ruins.  Ah,  she  could  never 
recover  from  such  a  blow!  In  vain  had  she  been  long 
awaiting  it ;  she  would  never  have  believed  it  possible 
that  Phil,  so  gentle  and  good,  would  do  her  such  harm ! 
For  him,  too,  she  had,  then,  been  but  a  toy !  He  had 
amused  himself  with  her !  He  had  sworn  marriage  to 
her,  and  because  she  was  pot>r  and  needed  to  work, — at  a 
trade  which  she  had  not  chosen,  oh,  no!— because  she 
earned  her  living  in  a  circus,  they  had  the  right  to  look 
down  on  her!  So  she  belonged  to  the  public!  They 
could  buy  a  ticket  at  the  door  and  talk  love  to  her  be- 
tween the  acts  for  a  pastime,  while  oaths — yes,  oaths  tak- 
ing Heaven  for  witness,  the  oaths  which  were  sworn  to 
her — did  not  count ! 

Helia  pronounced  the  last  words  aloud  in  a  tone  of 
indignation.  Sreurette  looked  up.  She  saw  her  big  sis- 
ter put  her  head  in  her  hands  and  weep  silently. 

For  some  time  she  had  found  that  her  sister  was  no 
longer  the  same.  Her  child's  memory  recalled  to  her 
a  Helia  full  of  joy  and  talking  always  of  Phil ;  a  Helia 
who  drew  a  circle  with  her  pen  at  the  end  of  her  letters, 
after  applying  her  lips  to  the  spot;  a  Helia  who  told 


LITTLE  SISTER  OF  A  STAB  213 

her  beautiful  stories  and  played  and  danced  her  in  her 
arms,  which  were  so  firm  and  gentle  that  she  would 
have  cast  herself  into  them  from  a  belfry  with  closed 
eyes. 

Soeurette  tried  to  understand.  Her  little  brain  divined 
something  without  knowing  exactly  what.  First,  they  did 
not  often  see  Monsieur  Phil.  He  was  always  very  kind  to 
her,  Monsieur  Phil,— and  yet  every  time  her  big  sister 
saw  him  she  was  sad  afterward.  Why?  Socrate,  too, 
made  Helia  sad.  She  was  in  trouble  when  he  went  away. 
What  had  he  been  saying  to  her  ?  And  Phil,  especially, 
what  had  he  been  doing  to  her  big  sister? 

Helia  raised  her  head.  She  was  as  worn  out  .as  after 
her  most  violent  efforts.  The  suffering  calmed  her  re- 
volted pride.  Sceurette  saw  her  lie  back  in  her  chair 
and  close  her  eyes  as  if  to  sleep.  But  Helia  did  not 
sleep.  During  those  moments  she  saw  again  her  entire 
life — the  gloomy  childhood  in  which  she  could  count  her 
happy  days,  and  then  her  youth,  in  which  Phil  had 
loved  her.  Had  she  acted  wrongly?  What  had  she 
done  that  could  displease  him?  Perhaps  it  was  a  mis- 
take to  keep  on  in  her  trade ;  but  how  was  she  to  live  ? 
Phil  was  to  have  taken  her  out  of  it,  and  he  had  not 
done  so.  And  she  meanwhile  had  been  so  proud  to  be 
an  artiste,  believing  that  she  would  become  his  equal, 
poor  fool  that  she  had  been!  Yes,  it  must  be  that! 
Phil,  the  student,  was  her  equal:  the  Phil  who  was 
now  tasting  glory  was  not.  Then  that  other  young 
girl  had  come,  so  beautiful  and  good  and  rich,  every- 
body said ;  and  surely  amiable,  and  smelling  of  violets ! 

"No!  no!  no!    It  is  not  possible!"  Helia  murmured 


214  FATA  MORGANA 

as  she  sat  upright  in  her  chair.  "No!  I  know  Phil- 
he  is  a  man!  If  he  had  done  that,  he  would  turn 
away  his  head  when  he  sees  me,  or  he  would  come  to 
ask  my  forgiveness  on  his  knees.  But  after  the  oath 
which  he  had  sworn  me,  to  act  like  that — without  shame 
and  without  remorse— no!  Socrate  is  lying!" 

Sceurette  said  nothing.  Her  instinct  told  her  that  all 
this  did  not  concern  her;  that  her  business  was  to  keep 
quiet,  and  that  big  sisters  have  cares  which  she  could 
not  understand.  But  she  saw  that  Helia  was  in  trouble, 
in  great  trouble;  and  Soeurette  wished  to  see  her  full 
of  joy,  as  she  had  once  been.  Her  good  little  heart 
had  a  touching  inspiration.  She  drew  a  mark  across 
her  letter  and  ended  it  up  as  follows: 

' '  Little  Jesus,  keep  your  playthings  for  the  poor,  but  tell  Phil 
to  be  good  to  my  big  sister,  who  used  to  play  all  the  while  and 
tell  me  stories.  Make  him  to  be  not  so  wicked,  for  she  cries 
often  when  she  speaks  about  him.  I  put  my  kiss  here  for  you, 
Little  Jesus." 

And  Soeurette  did  as  she  had  seen  Helia  do:  before 
slipping  the  letter  into  the  envelop  she  placed  a  kiss  at 
the  end  of  it,  and  made  a  circle  with  her  pen  all  around 
the  spot. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  OLD,  OLD   STORY 

AN  automobile,  with  Miss  Rowrer 's  brother  Will  con- 
/%  ducting  it  himself, was  rolling  slowly  along.  Will 
^  ^  had  just  arrived  from  America,  to  rest  in  France 
from  the  worries  of  business.  He  had  bought  for  his 
sister  this  magnificent  "forty-horse-power"  machine; 
and,  with  a  chauffeur  to  indicate  the  way  for  him,  he 
had  the  pleasure  of  taking  Ethel  and  gr'andma  for  a  ride 
through  Paris.  That  day,  on  the  seats  behind  him, 
there  were  his  sister  and  grandma,  and,  facing  them,  the 
Duke  of  Morgania  alone. 

' '  Oh,  there  's  Monsieur  Phil ! ' '  Miss  Rowrer  said,  as 
the  auto  stopped  at  a  crossing  thronged  with  hucksters 
and  good-wives  in  morning  undress. 

"Good  day,  Monsieur  Phil!" 

Phil  was  on  the  sidewalk,  two  steps  from  Miss  Rowrer. 
He  was  in  his  studio  dress,  a  short  coat  over  his  sweater. 
He  had  come  out  to  buy  something  and  was  going  home 
with  a  package  done  up  in  paper  in  his  hand.  Hearing 
his  name,  he  raised  his  head,  recognized  Miss  Rowrer, 
bowed,  and  then  approached  in  visible  embarrassment. 
The  vizor  of  his  cap  ill  concealed  the  eye  which  Socrate 
had  chanced  to  blacken  with  his  fist  the  night  before. 
215 


216  FATA  MORGANA 

' '  Our  friend  Phil  does  his  own  marketing, ' '  Ethel  said, 
laughing.  "He  is  right.  I  Ve  heard  from  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Charley  that  nothing  is  equal  to  a  good  beefsteak 
as  a  plaster  for  a  black  eye. ' ' 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  must  tell  you,"  said  Phil,  not 
wishing  that  Miss  Rowrer  should  think  he  had  fought 
with  a  lamp-post.  "This  is  how  it  happened:  I  got 
it  last  night  while  punishing  a  rough  fellow  for  ill- 
treating  a  poor  dog." 

.    "Really?    Then  get  in  here  with  us,  I  beg  of  you," 
said  Ethel. 

Phil  excused  himself, — his  dress,  his  black  eye. 

"You  're  all  right  as  you  are,"  Ethel  replied.  "You  '11 
really  oblige  me  by  coming  with  us" — and  she  seated 
him  beside  the  duke. 

"Your  dress  does  n't  trouble  us,  since  it  pleases  you," 
she  continued.  "Be  yourself,  and  look  out  at  the  world 
from  the  neck  of  a  sweater — there  '11  always  be  people 
enough  to  look  loftily  over  a  choker.  If  I  were  a  man 
I  would  always  defend  the  weak  and  pay  no  attention 
to  the  rest.  You  're  all  right  as  you  are,  Monsieur  Phil." 

Phil  listened  to  Ethel  with  intense  satisfaction.  The 
duke  chatted  with  grandma.  The  good-fellowship  which 
he  saw  growing  up  between  Miss  Rowrer  and  Phil  did 
not  bother  him.  It  was  only  the  ordinary  relations  be- 
tween an  American  girl  and  boy — only  the  friendship 
of  fellow  country  people.  The  duke  had  for  Phil  that 
distant  regard  which  nobles  by  race  have  for  profes- 
sionals. To  handle  a  tool,  even  such  as  the  painter's 
brush  or  sculptor's  chisel, — to  do  something  with  one's 
hands,  be  it  even  a  masterpiece,— lowers  a  man  some- 


"  He  approached  in  visible  embarrassment " 


THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY  219 

what  in  their  consideration.  Consequently  Phil  might 
defend  strong  or  weak,  or  dog-martyrs,  if  it  amused 
him— it  was  a  matter  of  no  importance.  The  duke 
gave  himself  up  to  the  noble  occupation  of  a  cicerone 
of  mark,  who  knew  his  Paris  thoroughly;  and,  as 
they  passed,  he  pointed  out  the  monuments  to  grandma. 

Phil,  on  his  side,  talked  with  Ethel  en  camarade,  as  the 
duke  said.  What  a  pleasure  such  talks  were  to  him! 
Where  were  now  his  fine  resolutions  no  longer  to  make 
himself  the  champion  of  Miss  Rowrer,  and  even  to  stop 
seeing  her?  He  drifted  along  under  the  charm  of  her 
words.  From  the  day  when,  in  the  duke's  company,  he 
had  first  met  her  at  the  Comtesse  de  Donjeon's,  he  had 
become  one  of  the  faithful  at  her  tea-parties.  He  often 
went  to  the  Rue  Servandoni;  and,  after  the  commission 
for  the  empress's  portrait  and  Ethel's  entrance  as  a 
pupil  in  his  studio,  they  had  had  the  most  friendly 
relations. 

Phil  told  her  stories  from  bohemia  that  amused  her. 
He  narrated  his  adventures  in  the  provinces,  including 
the  little  Saint  John,  with  his  arrival  in  Paris  and  his 
visit  to  Poufaille  and  Suzanne;  the  ''comrades,"  and 
Socrate,  and  the  Deux-Magots ;  his  reception  at  the  stu- 
dio ;  and  the  welcome  on  the  model 's  table ;  and  many 
other  things  besides.  But  he  said  little  about  Helia's 
stay  in  Paris  when  he  was  a  student.  For  that  matter, 
he  thought  of  it  seldom ;  his  memory  was  a  mist  con- 
cerning it— it  all  seemed  so  far  away  to  him. 

With  what  pity  he  recalled  the  environment  in  which 
he  had  lived!  There  were  all  his  chance  friends.  Su- 
zanne, who  was  really  good,  and  skeptical  only  because 


220  FATA  MORGANA 

she  had  seen  too  early  the  bad  side  of  life.  Poufaille  was 
too  simple;  to  have  made  an  intimate  friend  of  him 
would  have  been  to  tie  a  cannon-ball  to  one 's  leg.  Char- 
ley was  too  much  of  a  bluffer.  As  to  Helia— ah,  Helia! 
He  was  grateful  to  her  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
for  the  simple  love  which  he  had  once  had  for  her — a 
love  whose  remembrance  had  protected  him  all  through 
his  first  years  in  Paris.  For  him  it  had  been  a  ro- 
mance, without  reproach,  candid  and  loyal,  and  not  a 
passion  that  would  follow  him  through  life  like  a  remorse. 
His  romance— Phil  was  sure  of  it — had  nothing  in  it  that 
was  not  noble.  Yes,  Helia  would  always  have  a  place 
apart  in  his  heart ;  she  would  be  a  sweet  memory.  For- 
ever, all  through  his  life,  she  would  be  his  friend  and 
he  would  forever  be  a  brother  to  her. 

But  time  had  passed.  Helia  herself  had  changed.  He 
saw  it  clearly  during  her  visit  to  him  in  his  studio  on 
the  morrow  of  the  Quat'z-Arts  Ball.  Ah,  how  far  away 
were  the  days  when  she  had  been  his  sweetheart — how 
many  things  had  passed  since  then !  Now  Ethel  ruled 
in  his  life.  He  felt  himself  very  little  in  her  presence. 
For  her  he  had  the  same  admiration  which  Helia  once 
had  for  him. 

Miss  Rowrer  was  the  first  society  girl  whom  he  had 
known ;  for  he  had  led  a  solitary  life  in  the  Chesapeake 
manor,  and  in  Europe  his  over-timidity  had  always 
held  him  socially  aloof.  During  his  years  as  a  student 
he  had  neither  opportunity  nor  leisure.  It  was  only  now 
that  he  began  to  understand  the  charm  of  the  social 
world.  The  instincts  of  his  good  breeding  were  awakened. 
Life  seemed  beginning  for  him ;  he  felt  like  a  man  back 


THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY  221 

from  exile.  Contact  with  Miss  Rowrer  refined  him,  and 
even  his  art  was  idealized.  It  was  no  longer  physical 
beauty  alone  which  attracted  him :  there  was  the  moral 
side;  for  Ethel  put  character  far  above  talent,  and  the 
two  together  above  everything  else. 

After  this  automobile  ride  which  his  black  eye  had 
earned  for  him,  others  followed.  Usually  Will,  the  bro- 
ther, was  himself  the  conductor,  as  a  matter  of  prudence. 
That  intoxication  of  speed  which  gives  weak  minds  the 
illusion  of  energy  was  unknown  to  him.  Once,  however, 
he  got  into  the  auto  with  them  and  allowed  the  mechani- 
cian to  take  charge.  It  was  a  day  when  Mme.  de  Gro- 
jean  and  Mile.  Yvonne,  her  daughter,  had  accepted  the 
invitation  to  take  a  ride  with  them.  After  that  Mile. 
Yvonne  and  her  mother  returned  to  their  province,  so 
that  the  most  part  of  the  time  Ethel  and  grandma  had 
the  company  only  of  the  duke  or  Phil,  and  now  and  then 
of  M.  Caracal. 

They  saw  Auteuil  and  Chantilly,  and  took  part  in  an 
automobile  gymkhana  for  polo  at  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 
At  the  Longchamps  races  Miss  Rowrer,  like  a  great  favo- 
rite, was  the  target  of  the  field-glasses.  It  was  there  she 
met  Charley,  faultlessly  correct,  having  stripped  himself 
for  the  day  of  his  bohemian  clothes.  Charley,  who  knew 
Ethel,  passed  in  vain  near  her  again  and  again  to  have 
her  recognize  him. 

The  automobilists  were  seen  everywhere  from  Ver- 
sailles to  Vincennes.  The  trip  around  the  world  was  too 
commonplace.  They  made  the  trip  around  Paris,  passing 
its  fifty-seven  gates,  past  its  ten  railways,  its  two  water- 
ways, through  its  two  forests  and  more  than  thirty  quar- 


222  FATA  MORGANA 

tiers,  which  sum  up  the  luxury  and  industries  of  all  the 
cities  of  the  world — London  at  La  Rapee,  Chicago  at 
La  Villette,  Antwerp  at  the  Canal  de  1  'Ourcq. 

At  St.  Denis  Caracal  gave  them  the  history  of  what 
they  were  seeing.  He  showed  them  the  effigies  of  kings 
mutilated  in  the  Revolution,  at  the  time  when  Choisy- 
le-Roi  changed  its  name  to  Choisy-sur-Seine  and  Mont- 
morency  to  Etienne,  since  there  were  no  longer  kings  or 
nobles — "two  things  they  would  have  done  b'etter  to 
keep,"  the  duke  observed. 

"They  would  probably  still  be  here  if  they  had  been 
worth  keeping,"  answered  Ethel. 

They  dined  in  a  tree  at  Robinson  and  rode  on  donkeys 
at  Romainville.  The  outings  of  Parisians  in  villages 
with  charming  names— Marne-la- Coquette,  Fontenay- 
aux-Roses,  Les  Lilas— were  pleasing  to  Ethel. 

"Space  opens  up  ideas!  You  will  find  it  so,  Monsieur 
le  Due,  and  you  too,  Phil,  if  you  do  us  the  pleasure  to 
hunt  the  moose  on  our  Canadian  lands.  How  free  one 
feels  there — not  a  hedge,  not  a  barrier  between  us  and 
the  north  pole!" 

Caracal,  for  his  part,  cared  little  about  space.  He 
regretted  the  days  when  the  Boulevard  was  the  only 
promenade.  Tramways  and  railroads  seemed  to  him  high 
treason  against  Paris— something  like  an  invasion  of  the 
coarse  air  of  fields  and  woods  into  the  artistic  atmosphere 
of  cafes. 

"No,  no!"  Miss  Rowrer  answered.  "Leave  things  as 
they  are — a  little  pure  air  does  no  harm." 

"To  be  sure!"  said  grandma. 

Caracal  refused  to  be  consoled. 


THE   OLD,  OLD   STORY  223 

"If  this  goes  on,"  he  said,  "Paris  will  soon  be  Paris 
no  longer— that  something  indefinable  and  apart;  that 
hothouse  which  has  made  us  the  neurasthenic  and  dislo- 
cated skipjacks  that  we  are." 

"Well,  if  that  's  your  manner  of  loving  Paris!"  Ethel 
said,  laughing.  "Really,  you  see  things  worse  than  they 
are ! " 

Caracal,  perceiving  he  was  on  the  wrong  tack,  stopped 
short. 

"Just  the  contrary,  you  ought  to  be  glad  for  some- 
thing that  is  worth  more  than  hygiene— moral  health," 
Miss  Rowrer  continued.  "Why  should  people  stay  piled 
together  when  there  is  so  much  empty  space  around? 
Tempers  are  embittered  and  bodies  weakened.  Give  it 
space  and  air  and  your  Paris  will  cease  to  be  what  you 
would  wish  it  to  remain — a  hothouse  full  of  dislocated 
skipjacks  and  neurastheniques— such  as  our  up-to-date 
people  are,  according  to  you." 

' '  That  's  a  good  one  on  Caracal, ' '  thought  Phil  to  him- 
self. 

Will,  who  was  not  conducting  the  auto  that  day,  inter- 
rupted Ethel.  He  spoke  little,  but  he  thought  and  then 
went  straight  to  the  point. 

"Let  us  pardon  Frenchmen  because  of  Frenchwomen," 
he  said. 

"You  are  right,  Will,"  replied  Ethel.  "I  admire 
Frenchwomen— they  seem  so  superior  to  the  men;  for 
among  the  men  there  are  some  so  mean.  Think  of  Vieille- 
cloche  printing  such  outrageous  things  in  his  newspaper ! 
Really,  in  his  place  I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself! 
Who  is  Vieillecloche,  anyway  ? ' ' 


224  FATA  MORGANA 

"He  's  a  remarkable  duelist,"  answered  Caracal. 
"There  are  already  five  dead  men  in  his  trail." 

"What  a  coward!"  said  Ethel.  "I  would  wager  that 
if  he  were  hit  with  a  check,  he  would  apologize  to  us ! " 

"Oh,  let  him  alone!"  said  Will.  "He  does  us  no 
harm — the  barking  dog  doesn't  bite." 

"He  's  annoying,  all  the  same." 

"If  it  were  my  own  case  I  would  silence  him ! ' '  Cara- 
cal declared. 

"But  could  you  do  it?"  asked  Ethel.  "It  would  be 
very  kind  of  you  to  do  so.  I  can't  go  anywhere  at  all 
without  hearing  'Richard  the  Lion-hearted'  with  smiles 
all  around  me.  It  haunts  me.  It  almost  spoils  my  stay 
in  Paris.  Can  you  rid  me  of  it,  Monsieur  Caracal?" 

"I  shall  do  so!"  declared  Caracal. 

' '  I  thank  you ! ' '  said  Miss  Rowrer. 

Caracal  had  just  had  a  bright  thought.  He  knew  his 
friend  Vieillecloche  would  do  whatever  he  wished,  since 
the  blackmailing  scheme  against  the  Rowrers  had  not 
succeeded  and  no  check  had  come  or  would  come  to  close 
his  mouth.  It  would  be  just  as  well  to  look  for  something 
else.  Caracal  would  have  himself  attacked — he  would 
turn  aside  the  storm  to  himself  by  taking  up  the  defense 
of  foreigners,  to  the  apparent  indignation  of  Vieillecloche. 
In  this  noble  combat  against  calumny  he  would  stand 
forth  as  a  hero  in  the  eyes  of  Ethel,  like  a  St.  George 
slaying  the  dragon.  The  duke  and  Phil  would  have  to 
look  out  for  themselves.  He  would  know  how  to  cover 
them  with  ridicule— them  and  their  Helia— in  some  good 
little  newspaper  chronique,  sweet  as  honey,  which  Ethel 
might  read.  For  that  matter,  Phil  had  already  a  shot  in 


THE   OLD,  OLD   STORY  225 

his  wing — he  would  find  it  out  in  a  few  days  and  re- 
member his  cow  painting ! 

"I  will  arrange  all  that  this  evening  with  Vieille- 
cloche,"  thought  Caracal.  "I  shall  be  well  able  to  pay 
for  a  service  like  that  if  I  marry  Miss  Ethel."  Then 
aloud:  "I  shall  do  so— you  can  count  on  me,  Miss 
Kowrer !" 

All  this  was  but  one  of  a  thousand  incidents  of  their 
trips. 

"I  have  heard  of  le  dernier  salon  ou  I'on  cause  [the 
last  salon  for  conversation],"  Ethel  remarked.  "I  sup- 
pose it  has  disappeared,  it  is  so  long  since  people  began 
talking  about  it.  Well,  our  auto  takes  its  place — it  is  the 
first  auto  ou  I'on  cause." 

"When  one  listens  to  you,  Miss  Rowrer,  one  can  say 
that  wit  runs  the  streets, ' '  added  Caracal,  gallantly. 

Every  moment  some  new  observation  sprang,  bring- 
ing out  individual  character. 

For  instance,  a  cab  passed  them  noisily,  the  horse 
pounding  along  the  street  and  the  driver  lashing  him.. 

"What  a  noise!"  Will  said.  "Why  are  people  so  ob- 
stinate with  their  hippomobiles  ?  Why  not  put  rubber  on 
the  wheels  first,  and  then  on  the  horses'  shoes?" 

Will  calculated  the  chances  of  a  company  to  be  organ- 
ized for  this  purpose— so  many  horses  in  Europe,  so 
many  horseshoes  rubbered,  investment  of  capital  so  much, 
revenue  so  much. 

"They  are  'way  behind,"  said  grandma.  "What  an 
idea,  to  be  driven  about  in  such  dust-boxes ! ' ' 

"What  a  picture  to  make!"  said  Phil.  "That  horse 
just  now  reared  under  the  rein  with  a  movement  as 


226  FATA  MORGANA 

superb  as  any  of  the  Parthenon.  Behind  him  was  that 
theatrical  poster  representing  a  woman  with  her  hair 
floating— with  her  and  the  horse  you  might  imagine  a 
troupe  of  Amazons  under  the  blue  sky  of  Greece !  Only 
artists  can  enjoy  things.  They  know  how  to  see!" 

' '  The  poor  beast  has  lost  a  shoe,  and  the  collar  wounds 
him  and  the  cabman  lashes  him,"  Ethel  interrupted. 
"Poor  animal,  it  makes  me  ill  to  see  him !" 

Phil  thought  to  himself,  "That  is  what  I  ought  to  have 
seen!" 

Apart  from  these  excursions,  he  gave  to  Miss  Rowrer, 
also,  whatever  leisure  was  left  him  by  his  great  picture 
of  Morgana.  At  her  request,  he  accompanied  her  with 
Will  and  grandma  in  their  visits  to  museums  and  to  the 
shops  where  they  wished  to  buy  pictures  of  the  masters 
for  their  palace  on  the  Lake  Shore  Drive  in  Chicago. 

Will  had  first  visited  the  artists'  studios,  thinking  he 
would  find  there  a  world  free  from  the  atmosphere  of 
business.  But  the  landscape  man  tried  to  get  him  away 
from  the  portrait-painter,  and  professional  jealousy 
showed  its  teeth.  They  tried  to  pass  off  their ' '  old  stock ' ' 
on  him;  they  spoke  only  of  money.  "For  such  a  price 
I  will  do  so  and  so."  "If  it  is  larger  it  will  be  dearer." 
"A  landscape  without  trees  is  worth  so  much — with  trees, 
twice  as  much ! ' ' 

"If  I  've  got  to  talk  business,"  Will  thought,  "I  'd 
rather  do  it  with  business  men";  and  he  left  the  artists 
alone. 

He  liked  best  to  choose  for  himself  at  the  Hotel 
Drouot — that  big  collecting-sewer  of  art,  rolling  pell-mell 
in  its  dusty  waves  masterpieces  and  daubs.  The  sales- 


Poufaille's  Goods  Ready  for  Auction 


THE   OLD,  OLD   STORY  229 

rooms,  heaped  from  ceiling  to  floor,  gave  him  the  feeling 
that  he  might  sometime  make  a  discovery  there  like  the 
cock  who  found  pearls  in  a  dunghill. 

' '  What  horrors ! ' '  Will  said  one  day,  as  they  were  pass- 
ing in  front  of  a  hall  full  of  plaster  statues  and  un- 
f ramed  paintings.  ' '  It  must  be  from  the  studio  of  some 
poor  devil  whom  they  are  selling  out  at  auction." 

There  were  casts  from  nature — arms  and  legs  and  feet ; 
there  were  formless  sketches,  canvases  hung  on  the  wall ; 
for  some,  it  was  impossible  to  see  what  they  represented, 
as  they  had  been  hung  head  downward.  There  was  a  tub, 
some  bottles,  a  few  chairs,  a  mattress,  and  a  rickety 
table,  all  heaped  up  in  a  corner.  Two  monstrous  statues 
seemed  to  keep  watch  over  the  confusion.  On  the  pedes- 
tal of  one  was  inscribed  "Liberty,"  and  she  raised 
arms  and  head  furiously ;  the  second,  ' '  Fraternity, ' '  lay 
on  the  ground  in  fragments,  turning  enormous  haunches 
to  the  public. 

"What  are  those  mastodons  there?"  Will  asked. 

' '  That, ' '  said  Phil,  with  surprise,  ' '  that  must  be  from 
a  sculptor  whose  name  is  Poufaille ;  yes,  look  at  the  sign 
over  the  door — Vente  Poufaille." 

"Poor  Poufaille!"  said  Phil  to  himself;  "he  must 
have  been  unable  to  pay  his  rent— the  landlord  has  come 
down  on  him.  If  I  had  known,  I  might  have  helped ;  but 
it  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen  him." 

What  he  saw  recalled  the  day  when  he  entered  the 
sculptor's  place  on  his  arrival  in  Paris.  He  remembered 
the  gay  laughter  of  Suzanne  from  the  top  of  her  ladder, 
and  the  pork  fried  with  garlic.  Those  statues,  those 
pictures  worthy  to  figure  in  a  collection  of  horrors,— how 


230  FATA  MORGANA 

much  more  ugly  and  more  lamentable  still  it  all  seemed 
to  him  in  the  presence  of  the  crowd  of  indifferent  passers- 
by! 

"Poufaille?"  Ethel  asked  with  interest.  "Is  it  the 
Poufaille  of  whom  you  used  to  tell  me?  Why,  he  has 
no  talent ;  he  'd  do  better  as  a  farmer. ' ' 

The  sale  began  and  they  heard  the  auctioneer  above 
the  confusion  of  the  throng:  "Magnificent  statues— 'Lib- 
erty'—'Fraternity'— give  me  a  bid!" 

"Forty  sous!" 

' '  Forty  sous  ?  There  's  half  a  ton  of  plaster  there ! 
Come,  now,  a  higher  bid!" 

A  silence,  and  then  some  one  called,  ' '  Fifty  sous ! ' ' 

"Bid  it  up  a  thousand  francs,  Will!"  Ethel  said  to 
her  brother. 

"Really,  now,  Ethel,"  Will  answered,  "even  at  fifty 
sous  it  's  dear.  I  '11  buy  something  else  from  M.  Pou- 
faille, some  other  time." 

So  many  years  of  toil  and  want,  and  all  his  poor  dreams 
of  the  future  soon  to  be  scattered  and  ground  to  mortar 
— yet  Poufaille  was  right !  He  had  followed  his  dream, 
he  had  tried  his  fortune ;  it  had  tumbled  to  the  ground, 
but  what  a  beautiful  dream  it  had  been  all  the  same! 
And  Phil  thought,  with  a  thrill  at  his  heart,  that  there 
was  one  thing  which  justified  every  effort;  one  thing 
which  broke  down  distinctions  and  made  a  poor  artist 
the  equal  of  a  reigning  duke,  of  a  king  even;  something 
which  would  put  him  on  a  level  with  Ethel;  something 
which  he  would  reach,  had  he  to  kill  himself  in  the 
struggle  for  it! 

Ethel  came  up  to  Phil  as  they  were  going  out  of  the 
hall. 


THE  OLD,  OLD  STORY  231 

' '  Tell  me,  Phil,  what  can  induce  a  man  like  Pouf aille 
to  try  art  ?  Is  n  't  it  sheer  folly  ? ' ' 

"No,  Miss  Rowrer.  It  is  true  Pouf  aille  has  not  suc- 
ceeded, but  that  matters  little.  He  has  tried  to  reach 
the  only  thing  which  makes  life  worth  living." 

' 'What  is  that,  Phil?" 

"Fame!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

CARACAL'S  NARROW  ESCAPE 

"  \  B AS  Caracal!" 

/%      ''Vive  Vieillecloche!" 

-/I^\_  Phil,  who  was  reading  a  newspaper  as  he  passed 
along,  looked  up  with  astonishment. 

He  was  in  front  of  the  entrance  of  a  music-hall.  On 
a  strip  of  cotton  cloth  he  read,  in  huge  letters,  "PUNCH 
d 'INDIGNATION!"  The  name  of  Vieillecloche  was 
displayed  everywhere,  mingled  with  the  flags  which  cov- 
ered a  good  half  of  the  theatrical  posters  of  acrobats, 
jugglers,  and  clowns. 

' '  The  flag  covers  the  goods ! ' '  Phil  said,  as  he  saw  this 
assemblage  of  patriotism  and  fakery.  "Vieillecloche  is 
at  his  old  tricks;  what  a  humbug!" 

Phil  stopped.  Confused  imprecations  against  impos- 
tors and  grafters  came  to  his  ears  between  the  bang ! 
bang !  of  the  door,  pushed  one  way  or  the  other  by  the 
public  and  clanging  back  into  its  place. 

Bang!     "Vive  Vieillecloche!" 

Bang!  "A  bas!"  Bang!  "Traitors!  Sold  out!" 
Bang !  "A  bas  Caracal ! ' '  Bang !  bang ! 

"Hello!"  said  Phil.    " 'A  bas  Caracal'?    What  does 
that  mean  ?    I  must  go  in. " 
232 


CARACAL'S  NARROW  ESCAPE  233 

He  entered. 

Bang!  It  was  the  door  slamming  after  Phil.  He 
had  now  a  right  to  the  indignation  and  to  the  punch. 

To  tell  the  truth,  there  was  little  indignation  in  the 
hall,  but  a  great  deal  of  drinking  and  still  more  laughter. 
The  public  was  made  up  of  the  idlers  of  the  quarter,  who 
had  come  to  be  amused.  There  were  stable-boys  and 
grooms  in  their  great  wooden  shoes.  The  hall  was  in- 
fected with  the  smell  of  rum  and  tobacco.  The  voices, 
which  but  now  had  reached  Phil's  ear  in  broken  cries, 
rolled  uninterruptedly.  There  was  a  continuous  torrent 
of  a  bas!  and  vive!  mingled  with  coarse  wit  and  the  clink 
of  glasses.  On  the  stage,  mastering  the  tumult,  Vieille- 
cloche  was  speaking. 

"Vive  Vieillecloche!" 

"Hear!  hear!" 

Bang! 

The  flights  of  oratory  were  lost  amid  the  noise. 

"Only  yesterday,"  Vieillecloche  was  saying,  as  he 
raised  his  voice,  "not  satisfied  with  attacking  the  majesty 
of  universal  suffrage,  forgetful  of  the  famous  night  of  the 
13th  of  March,  foreigners  feared  not  to  brave  the  lion- 
people  in  its  den !  They  banded  together  to  despoil  us 
of  our  dead— to  soil  the  majesty  of  the  tomb  where  our 
great  ancestors —  '  Bang !  said  the  door,  cutting  the  dis- 
course, "—ancestors  sleep  their  eternal  sleep!  Do  you 
not  hear,  O  people,  beneath  the  earth  Richard  the  Lion- 
hearted  roaring  with  wrath  and  shame?  And  to  think 
there  are  French  pens  that  treat  us  as  visionaries— us 
who  point  out  such  attacks— and  that  pretend  that  we 
are  wanting  in  courtesy  by  accusing  our  passing  guests 


234  FATA  MORGANA 

of  an  imaginary  crime !  This  vile  pen,  citizens,  I  deliver 
it  up  to  your  indignant  scorn.  It  is  Caracal ! ' ' 

"Abas  Caracal!" 

"Oho!  I  understand,"  Phil  said  to  himself.  "Cara- 
cal has  taken  up  the  defense  of  the  foreigners,  as  he 
promised  Miss  Rowrer  the  other  day. ' ' 

"Eh  bien!"  Vieillecloche  went  on,  "it  shall  not  be 
said  that  Caracal  has  appealed  in  vain  to  our  courtesy 
when  he  asks  us  to  cease  our  political  campaign  against 
such  foreigners,  among  whom  there  are  ladies  and  even 
a  young  girl.  We  shall  speak  no  more  of  Richard  the 
Lion-hearted!  All  that  is  a  blunder,  a  visionary's 
dream,  a  groundless  accusation.  So  be  it !  They  ask  for 
definite  facts  and  not  for  vague  accusations.  Here  is  a 
definite  fact !  I  accuse,  formally,  an  American  of  steal- 
ing our  ideas  and  stifling  under  the  power  of  his  cursed 
gold  the  outburst  of  a  young  genius,  the  hope  of  our 
glorious  national  art.  They  come  to  pillage  even  in  their 
calm  retreats,  and  to  deprive  of  their  labor  the  sons  of 
the  soil— Us  autochtones!—\mm  l—les  autochtones!  (The 
word  intoxicated  Vieillecloche  and  he  sent  it  bounding 
like  a  rubber  ball.)  "Yes,  citizens!  He  has  signed 
his  work  with  a  false  name,  he  has  picked  the  lock 
of  our  national  museums,  and,  like  a  cuckoo,  he  has 
deposited  in  the  bosom  of  glory  the  egg  which  he  has  not 
laid !  And  you  suffer  that,  0  people  ?  Do  you  not  feel 
the  blush  of  shame  mounting  to  your  cheek  ?  Take  your 
clubs,  Parisians — "  and  so  he  went  on  and  on. 

Vieillecloche  in  his  haranguing  embroidered  his  theme 
with  violent  gestures  which  sent  the  skirts  of  his  coat 
flying  around  his  thin  body. 


The  Punch  d'liulignatiou 


CARACAL'S  NARROW  ESCAPE  237 

Phil  was  not  sorry  to  have  come.  The  inventions  of 
this  crank  amused  him,  most  of  all  when  the  orator,  rising 
to  higher  flights,  brought  out  personal  facts  so  as  "to 
enter  into  the  domain  of  practical  things. ' '  Vieillecloche 
calmed  down.  The  storm-tossed  skirts  of  his  coat  fell. 
He  was  no  longer  the  roaring  tribune  of  the  people :  he 
was  the  statesman,  speaking  calmly  and  coolly.  He  held 
one  hand  between  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat,  and  the 
other  behind  his  back,  like  Napoleon.  To  begin  with, 
according  to  him,  these  facts  would  never  have  taken 
place  if  they  had  only  listened  to  him. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  counsels  followed,  in  which 
there  were  insurrections  and  barricades,  blood  and  glory, 
and  a  has!  and  vive! 

"But  if  the  sword  remains  in  the  scabbard,"  Vieille- 
cloche concluded,  "let  the  people,  at  least,  console  de- 
spoiled genius  with  their  songs ;  let  the  old  Gaulish  gai- 
ety inflict  its  avenging  laugh  on  the  robber  of  its  glory ! ' ' 

As  Vieillecloche  retired  amid  ironic  applause,  a  long- 
haired poet  came  out  on  the  platform  and  a  hurdy-gurdy 
ground  out  despairingly  such  an  air  as  goats  dance  to. 
Phil  looked  at  the  furious  grinder  and  gave  a  cry  of 
astonishment :  ' '  Pouf aille ! ' ' 

"What  is  Pouf  aille  doing  here?  And  why  does  he 
look  so  furious  ? ' '  Phil  asked  himself,  as  he  saw  the  sculp- 
tor's  wrathful  head  leaning  over  the  hurdy-gurdy  whose 
crank  he  turned  with  rage. 

Bing !  bing ! 

"After  all,"  thought  Phil,  "there  is  nothing  strange 
in  Poufaille  being  here.  Artists  belong  to  all  sorts  of 
provincial  and  Parisian  societies,  as  if  they  were  really 


238  FATA   MORGANA 

children  of  the  soil,  so  as  to  get  orders.  He  might  as 
well  grind  out  a  tune  at  an  indignation  meeting  as 
Suzanne  do  the  Muse  of  the  South  at  the  Pig's-Rump 
Dinner." 

Phil  also  knew  that  the  "Poets  of  the  Landes"  or  the 
"Broom-flower"  were  only  too  happy  to  make  themselves 
heard  by  a  Parisian  public,  and  would  not  miss  an 
occasion  for  avenging  genius  despoiled  by  cowards,  and 
for  declaiming  in  its  honor  to  the  accompaniment  of 
a  hurdy-gurdy  or  bagpipes. 

So  it  was  a  very  simple  thing  that  Poufaille  should 
have  offered  his  services.  Meanwhile  Vieillecloche  had  sat 
down  after  many  a  handshake  with  the  notabilities  of 
the  committee.  It  was  now  the  turn  of  the  poet. 

The  singer  on  the  platform  gesticulated  to  his  Norman 
patois,  more  monotonous  than  the  fall  of  rain,  while  the 
air  of  the  hurdy-gurdy,  piercing  and  thrilling,  filled  the 
hall  like  a  continued  wailing  from  a  herd  of  kids. 

"Enough!"  cried  the  public;  "be  done,  fouchtri!" 

"To  the  door!" 

"Enough!  enough!" 

' '  Silence,  Francois ! ' ' 

"Ta  bouche,  bebe!" 

"Stow  it!  I  say!  petrusquin!" 

It  was  the  Parigot  wit  replying  to  the  wit  of  the  prov- 
inces. The  people  had  indeed  arisen,  but  not  as  Vieille- 
cloche would  have  wished.  Instead  of  tearing  up  the 
paving-stones  in  honor  of  misunderstood  Genius,  and 
casting  out  the  robbers  of  Glory,  they  were  content  to 
finish  the  punch  and  laugh  in  the  face  of  the  poet  who 
bored  them  with  his  doggerel. 


CARACAL'S  NARROW  ESCAPE  239 

Besides,  all  these  questions  of  signatures  to  pictures,  of 
museum  locks  picked,  and  of  Richard  the  Lion-hearted 
interested  nobody. 

But  the  banging  of  the  door  now  began  covering  the 
bing !  bing !  of  the  tune.  The  public  was  going  out  in  a 
mass.  Vieillecloche  tried  to  keep  them  by  new  flights  of 
oratory  which  had  no  echo.  Phil  foresaw  that  the  fierce 
tribune  of  the  people  would  soon  be  making  his  prophetic 
gestures  and  proclaiming  the  eternal  glory  of  the  au- 
tochtones  alone  with  his  hurdy-gurdy,  like  St.  Anthony 
with  his  pig.  So  Phil  went  away,  followed  to  the  very 
street  by  the  exasperated  grinding  of  the  crank. 

"What  madness!"  Phil  said  to  himself.  "Poufaille 
is  certainly  earning  his  money.  He  puts  as  much  heat 
into  it  as  if  some  one  had  stolen  his  own  share  of  glory." 
Poufaille  a  despoiled  young  genius!  Phil,  at  the  very 
idea,  could  not  refrain  from  laughter. 

"I  must  wait  for  him  here,"  he  thought;  "I  shall  see 
him  when  he  comes  out." 

He  walked  back  and  forth,  but  Poufaille  did  not  come 
out.  Still,  Phil  lost  nothing  by  waiting.  A  final  bang 
of  the  door  made  him  turn  his  head  and— what  did  he 
see  but,  arm  in  arm  and  laughing  and  talking  together 
as  gay  as  school-boys,  Vieillecloche  with  Caracal ! 

"Well,  I  never!  That  's  too  much!"  Phil  said,  as  he 
followed  them  with  his  eyes,  trying  to  gather  from  their 
gestures  the  meaning  of  their  conversation. 

Vieillecloche  lifted  his  hands,  as  if  to  show  that  they 
were  empty.  Caracal  spoke  low  to  him.  Vieillecloche 
nodded  approvingly. 

"Those  fine  fellows  must  be  preparing  some  stroke  of 


240  FATA  MORGANA 

business,"  Phil  said  to  himself,  strongly  interested. 
''Who  knows  if  I  do  not  play  a  part  in  it?  It  may  be 
my  turn— and  Miss  Ethel  will  no  longer  hear  of  Richard 
the  Lion-hearted.  The  attacks  will  now  fall  on  Caracal. 
Bravo !  But  perhaps  Miss  Ethel  will  not  be  displeased 
to  learn  of  the  friendship  between  Caracal  and  Vieille- 
cloche.  One  might  have  supposed  they  would  not  be 
quite  so  thick!  I  don't  understand  it,"  was  Phil's  con- 
clusion. Moreover,  he  was  accustomed  never  to  take  se- 
riously what  Caracal  said  or  did. 

"Besides,"  Phil  added,  "Poufaille  must  know  what 
is  going  on.  I  have  not  seen  him  come  out,  but  he  will 
tell  me  to-night."  So  he  determined  to  dine  at  Mere 
Michel's,  where  he  would  have  a  chance  of  seeing  Pou- 
faille. 

For  a  long  time  he  had  not  met  the  copains— they  had 
almost  become  strangers  to  him.  The  talk  about  art  and 
the  masterpieces  traced  with  a  burnt  match  on  grimy 
tables  no  longer  interested  him.  He  felt  himself  out  of 
place  in  the  environment,  but  he  wished  to  see  Poufaille 
that  very  evening.  To  begin  with,  he  would  have  the 
pleasure  of  offering  his  services  to  the  poor  devil,  who 
could  not  be  very  rich,  to  judge  from  the  sale  at  the  Hotel 
Drouot  a  few  days  before.  Phil  would  find  some  delicate 
means  of  being  useful  to  him.  Who  knows  if  he  would 
ever  see  him  again?  It  would  be  like  a  farewell  to  his 
own  past.  So  Phil  went  to  Mere  Michel's. 

His  past  mounted  up  to  his  brain.  It  seemed  to  rise 
up  whole  and  entire  before  him  when,  near  the  Boule- 
vard, in  a  narrow  street,  he  saw  the  painted  canvas  and 
fixtures  deposited  at  the  stage  entrance  of  a  circus.  The 


CARACAL'S  NARROW  ESCAPE  241 

damp  courtyard,  the  frayed  walls,  the  store-rooms  of 
stage-properties,  the  theater's  insides — all  that  was  a 
little  of  his  own  past. 

It  was  himself,  again,  whom  he  elbowed  in  the  Boule- 
vard beside  the  Cafe  des  Artistes,  where  women  with  red 
tresses  topped  with  feathers  were  drinking  from  little 
glasses  with  ill-shaven  messieurs,  showing  each  other 
photographs  and  programs,  and  signing  engagements 
with  fingers  stiff  with  rings.  Phil  could  hear  their  tech- 
nical slang:  Chique — deche — puree — j'te  fais  une  bleue 
en  cinq  sees!  ' '  Gargon,  two  absinthes,  and  get  a  move  on 
you,  bougre  d'andouille!" 

Strolling  artists  offered  to  do  his  portrait  for  two  sous. 
A  bohemian  imitated  an  ocarina  by  swelling  out  his 
cheeks.  A  contortionist  spread  his  little  carpet  and  dis- 
located himself  on  the  sidewalk. 

"Do  you  like  my  trade?"  he  said  to  Phil,  who  stood 
looking  at  him.  "If  you  do,  I  '11  hire  you!" 

"What  a  world  it  is,  all  the  same !  And  to  think  that 
once  I  loved  it  all,"  Phil  thought,  as  he  turned  away. 

Farther  on  there  was  a  restaurant  still  celebrated  for 
the  reason  that,  long  ago,  my  Lord  1  'Arsouille  had  supped 
there  with  Cora  Pearl.  As  Phil  passed  in  front  of  it,  he 
saw  the  staircase  decorated  with  green  palms,  and  he 
thought  he  recognized  Helia  going  up,— it  was  her  hat 
and  cloak,— and,  lifting  his  eyes,  Phil  saw,  at  the  window 
above,  the  profile  of  the  Duke  of  Morgania.  Phil  low- 
ered his  head  and  went  his  way  pensively,  leaving  behind 
him  the  restaurant  full  of  fragrance  and  lights,  wherein 
the  beautiful  butterflies  of  the  night  were  coming  to  burn 
their  wings. 


242  FATA  MORGANA 

To  escape  from  these  mournful  visions,  Phil  called  up 
the  remembrance  of  Ethel.  The  remainder  of  his  way 
he  traversed  without  noticing  the  distance.  He  had  al- 
ready passed  the  Seine  and  gone  under  the  vault  of  the 
Institut,  following  a  quiet  old  street.  A  moment  later 
he  was  at  Mere  Michel's.  A  volley  of  enthusiastic  cries 
welcomed  him.  Phil  asked  himself  if  he  were  not  the 
plaything  of  a  dream. 

"Vive  Phil!  Hurrah  for  Phil!  Bravo,  Phil!  A  ban 
for  Phil!" 

"Pan!  pan!  pan!  pan!  pan!" 

"It  must  be  my  tall  hat,"  thought  Phil,  and  he  took 
it  off  with  a  quick  movement.  The  welcome  doubled  its 
noise. 

"Vive  Phil!" 

"Hurrah!" 

"Am  I  dreaming?"  Phil  asked  himself,  "or  are  these 
men  crazy?"  They  were  all  crowding  round  him,  pat- 
ting him  on  the  back  and  shaking  his  hand. 

"Old  Phil!" 

"Good  old  Phil!" 

"My  best  compliments,  old  comrade!" 

* '  Compliments  for  what  ?  Whose  compliments  ? ' '  Phil 
asked  in  a  daze. 

' '  But  for  your  picture,  of  course  ! ' ' 

"What  picture?" 

' '  Your  picture  in  the  Luxembourg.  Have  n  't  you  read 
the  papers?" 

You  could  have  "knocked  Phil  over  with  a  feather." 
They  were  telling  him  he  had  a  picture  in  the  Luxem- 
bourg, and  he  was  the  only  one  not  to  know  it !  Surely 


CARACAL'S  NARROW  ESCAPE  243 

they  must  be  amusing  themselves  with  him — they  must 
have  got  up  a  practical  joke.  So  he  went  away,  ill  dis- 
posed for  a  rigolade  after  the  events  of  the  day. 

He  had  not  gone  ten  steps  when  he  stumbled  on  Pou- 
faille ;  but  it  was  Poufaille  cold  and  sinister,  a  Northern 
Poufaille  as  it  were,  closer  buttoned  up  than  Vieille- 
cloche  in  his  role  as  statesman. 

"How  goes  it?"  Phil  said  cordially,  holding  out  his 
hand. 

Poufaille  did  not  budge. 

"What  's  the  matter?"  said  Phil.  "You  're  giving 
me  the  cold  shoulder!  Is  everybody  losing  his  head? 
You  won 't  take  my  hand,  good  old  Poufaille ! ' ' 

"I  am  no  longer  your  good  old  Poufaille!" 

"But  what  have  I  done?"  Phil  asked. 

"What  have  you  done?"  Poufaille  burst  out,  unable 
to  restrain  himself  longer.  "I  '11  tell  you  what  you  Ve 
done.  You  Ve  stolen  my  share  of  glory — you  sign  pic- 
tures which  were  painted  by  me!  I  Ve  seen  my  cows 
in  the  Luxembourg,  signed  by  your  name— the  picture 
into  which  I  put  my  whole  soul !" 

If  lightning  had  fallen  at  Phil's  feet  he  would  have 
been  less  surprised.  So  he  was  the  robber  cuckoo  and 
Poufaille  was  the  young  genius !  Now  he  understood  the 
meaning  of  the  "Punch  d 'Indignation. " 

"That 's  what  you  Ve  done  to  me!"  Poufaille  cried, 
quite  beside  himself. -"You  would  hinder  me  from  flying 
with  my  own  wings.  I  had  something  here"  (and  Pou- 
faille gave  himself  a  tremendous  blow  on  the  forehead), 
"I  had  something  here— and  you  robbed  me  of  it!" 

"Your  cows—"  Phil  began  in  distress,  "it  was  a  joke 


244  FATA  MORGANA 

I  wanted  to  play  on  Caracal.  I  bought  the  picture  and 
signed  it — that  is  true.  But  was  it  yours?  I  didn't 
know  it." 

"You  didn't  know  it!  Doesn't  one  know  the  mark 
of  the  lion?" 

"My  good  Poufaille,  let  me  explain  it  to  you— let 
me — "  Phil  all  but  stammered;  it  was  not  easy  to  tell 
Poufaille  that  his  picture  had  been  used  as  a  scarecrow) 
— "let  me  explain  it  to  you." 

"We  '11  have  the  explanation  in  public,"  Poufaille 
shouted. 

"Only  let  me  tell  you,  my  dear  Poufaille — " 

But  Poufaille  would  listen  to  nothing.  He  only  knew 
that  he  was  perishing  of  hunger  while  another  was  steal- 
ing his  glory.  In  his  rage  fragments  of  the  speech  came 
back  to  him  in  chance  words:  "Les  autochtones! — young 
genius — you  have  deposited  in  the  bosom  of  glory  an 
autochtone's  egg — do  you  understand? — an  autochtone's 
egg!" 

"Poufaille,"  Phil  said  gravely,  "if  I  have  done  you 
wrong,  I  swear  it  was  not  done  wilfully.  How  much  do 
you  think  your  cows  are  worth  ?  I  '11  give  you  whatever 
you  ask." 

"Money!"  Poufaille  answered  indignantly.  "You 
dare  offer  me  money  to  purchase  my  silence !" 

' '  Listen  to  me,  I  beseech  you ! ' ' 

"No!  I  am  going  to  tell  them -all  about  it  inside 
there!"  and  Poufaille,  terrible  and  furious,  entered 
Mere  Michel's. 

It  was  now  Phil's  turn  to  be  angry— not  against  the 
poor  simpleton  Poufaille,  but  Caracal  should  pay  for 


CARACAL'S  NARROW   ESCAPE  245 

this !  ' '  What  will  Miss  Rowrer  think  of  me  with  thia 
story  of  a  forged  signature?"  Phil  said  to  himself. 

The  idea  that  his  name  figured  on  a  picture  in  the 
collection  of  daubs  which  form  the  foreign  hall  of  the 
Luxembourg  Museum—and  that  just  when  he  dreamed 
he  was  sure  of  fame !  At  the  very  thought  he  clenched 
his  fists  with  fury.  So  Caracal  had  bewitched  the  Fine 
Arts  Commission  into  accepting  such  a  horror!— or  per- 
haps they  were  willing  to  discredit  American  art  by 
presenting  to  the  public  a  wretched  work  bought  for  a 
few  sous  in  a  junk-shop!  And  now  he,  Phil,  was  to 
suffer  shipwreck  from  the  ridiculousness  of  it,  while 
Ethel  would  laugh !  What  could  be  Caracal 's  aim  ? 
With  a  flash  it  came  to  him  that  the  abominable  critic 
wished  to  make  him  grotesque  and  odious  at  the  same 
time. 

"Ah,  Caracal,"  Phil  said  to  himself,  "you  are  mis- 
taken this  time.  You  shall  pay  for  all  this ! ' ' 

A  sudden  idea  came  to  him:  "What  if  I  should  go 
and  punch  his  head ! ' ' 

He  knew  he  should  find  Caracal  at  home  at  that  hour. 
It  was  the  day  before  the  feuilleton,  impertinent  and 
familiar,  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  signing  "A  Pari- 
sian," or  the  chronique  scandaleuse  of  courts  by  an 
"Old  Diplomat,"  alternating  with  art  criticisms  signed 
"Caracal."  A  cab  happened  to  be  passing.  Phil  hailed 
it,  called  out  the  address  to  the  driver,  and — en  route! 
What  streets  he  took,  through  what  quarters,  Phil  did 
not  know.  He  knew  only  that  the  critic  was  going  to 
have  a  bad  quarter  of  an  hour.  He  must  have  from 
him  a  frank  explanation,  without  dodging  or  subter- 


246  FATA  MORGANA 

fuge.  This  time  there  would  be  no  duel  carried  on  by 
winking  the  eye  and  shrugging  the  shoulder.  Phil  stif- 
fened his  arm  as  the  cab  stopped  short.  He  jumped 
to  the  ground  and  with  three  steps  reached  the  con- 
cierge's lodge. 

"M.  Caracal,  if  you  please?" 
"Seventh  floor,  last  door — on  the  court!" 
Phil  ran  quickly  up  the  stairs.    A  thick  carpet  dead- 
ened his  steps,  and  he  could  hear,  behind  the  doors,  the 
sound  of  pianos  or  the  laughter  of  children.    He  imag- 
ined to  himself  the  pleasant  homes  with  their  lamps 
surrounded  by  a  circle  of  golden  heads. 

' '  Good,  simple,  good  people ! ' '  Phil  thought.  ' '  Perhaps 
it  is  from  you  that  Caracal  takes  his  studies  for  'The 
House  of  Glass'— wolf  in  the  sheepfold  that  he  is!" 

The  thought  increased  his  anger.  He  went  up  and  up. 
At  last  he  was  going  to  see  that  apartment  of  Caracal's 
which  no  one  ever  entered.  No  doubt  it  would  be  in- 
solent in  its  luxury  and  have  a  big  valet  in  the  ante- 
room and  invaluable  pictures  which  this  grafter  of  the 
press  must  have  extorted  for  his  collection  of  art  works, 
of  which  he  was  always  talking  in  his  articles. 

Seventh  floor,  last  door !  It  must  be  there.  Phil  had 
reached  it.  There  was  no  bell !  Phil  knocked,  but  there 
was  no  reply.  The  key  had  been  forgotten  in  the  door, 
and  he  entered.  On  a  table  a  small  lamp  shed  its  light 
over  papers  and  books.  There  were  other  books  on  the 
ground  and  on  chairs— perhaps  the  encyclopedia  from 
which  Caracal  drew  his  weekly  erudition.  In  the  half- 
obscurity,  farther  back,  Phil  saw  a  brass  bedstead  like 
a  child's  couch.  Beside  it,  on  a  chest  of  drawers,  there 


CARACAL'S  NARROW  ESCAPE  247 

were  garments  carefully  folded  and  a  hat  protected 
from  the  dust  by  a  newspaper.  On  the  floor  were  shoes 
beside  a  blacking-brush.  On  the  chimneypiece  there 
was  a  photograph  in  which  an  old  lady  held  the  hand 
of  an  old  gentleman.  Everything  in  the  room  was  neatly 
ordered  and  touching  in  its  simplicity. 

"I  must  have  mistaken  the  floor,"  Phil  said  to  himself. 
"This  is  not  the  apartment  of  an  arbiter  of  society 
elegance." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  retreating  when,  on  a  sofa  near 
him  in  the  shadow,  some  one  moved,  and  he  seemed  to 
hear  a  sob.  Phil  started  back  and  the  figure  on  the  sofa 
came  into  full  light.  It  was  Caracal  asleep.  There  was 
an  expression  of  sadness  on  his  face  and  tears  were  on 
his  cheeks— the  cheeks  which  Phil  had  always  seen 
smirking  with  a  convulsive  sneer. 

Caracal,  when  he  came  home,  must  have  thrown  him- 
self on  the  sofa  worn  out  with  his  day's  work.  The  calm 
which  had  come  over  his  features  showed  that  he  had 
dropped  off  to  sleep  in  some  sad  and  gentle  dream.  Phil, 
in  spite  of  himself,  looked  up  to  the  chimneypiece  where 
the  old  lady  and  the  old  gentleman  seemed  watching  over 
their  child — yes,  yes,  Phil  was  sure  of  it  now,  from  the 
sadness  on  the  face  of  Caracal.  He  must  have  gone  back 
to  his  childhood;  perhaps,  in  his  dreams,  he  heard  the 
beloved  voices  which  had  long  since  become  silent.  A 
sob  from  Caracal  made  Phil  tremble  again— a  dull,  deep 
sob  like  the  sigh  of  a  dying  man.  One  would  have  said 
that  his  whole  life  was  rising  up  before  him — his  heart's 
bitterness,  humiliations  undergone  and  illusions  fled,  the 
success  of  others  and  regrets  for  his  own  ill-doing. 

13 


248  FATA  MORGANA 

Phil  felt  his  anger  fade  away.  He  divined  all  the 
wretchedness  of  his  life,  so  full  of  meanness  and  bluff. 
Asleep,  the  poor  creature,  overcome  by  his  distress, 
seemed  sacred  to  him.  He  went  out  without  noise. 

' ' Old  Caracal, ' '  he  murmured,  "I  '11  leave  you  to  your 
dream— that  shall  be  your  punishment." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   QUEEN    FOR   KINGS 

POUFAILLE,  seated  on  a  high  stool,  was  copying 
in  the  Louvre  Gallery.  Since  his  share  of  glory 
had  been  stolen  from  him,  he  had  become  as  down- 
cast as  a  caged  lion  from  whom  his  quarter  of  meat  has 
been  taken.  Poor  Pouf aille !  Everything  fell  to  pieces 
in  his  hands.  His  studio  had  been  dispersed  at  auction ; 
' '  Liberty ' '  and  ' '  Fraternity ' '  had  been  sold  for  nothing, 
not  even  for  enough  to  pay  up  the  garlic-  and  potato- 
seller.  And  his  cows  were  in  the  Luxembourg  under 
another  name !  What  reasons  for  sadness !  He  did  not 
even  listen  to  Suzanne,  babbling  near  him  on  a  lower 
seat.  He  was  timidly  copying  the  goat  and  kids  of  Paul 
Potter.  The  company  of  such  good  animals  consoled 
him  a  little  for  that  of  men. 

He  was  a  touching  sight,  with  the  veins  in  his  fore- 
head swollen  by  his  effort,  exhausting  himself  in  the 
handling  of  brushes  and  paint-knives,  which  were  things 
too  delicate  for  his  big  hairy  hands  made  for  the  plow 
and  the  wine-press. 

Nothing  could  amuse  him.  Yet  Suzanne  lifted  toward 
him  her  laughing  face  and  told  her  funniest  stories.  One 
was  an  adventure  of  the  other  evening,  when  she  had 
249 


250  FATA  MORGANA 

taken  Helia's  hat  and  cloak  to  go  and  sup  with  the 
duke.  Mon  Dieu!  how  she  had  laughed.  At  the  thought 
of  it  she  still  held  her  sides,  careless  of  the  stares  of  the 
public. 

' '  I  wish  you  had  been  there,  my  little  Poufaille,  when 
I  went  up  the  stairs.  They  bowed  to  me  as  if  I  were  a 
queen— ah,  mais  oui!  I  made  myself  as  fine  as  I  could 
and  I  had  Helia's  hat  and  cloak.  If  Phil  had  seen  me 
he  might  have  thought  it  was  Helia. 

"Eh  bien!  quoi!"  Suzanne  exclaimed,  interrupting 
herself  to  look  at  Poufaille.  "What  do  you  mean  by 
grinding  your  teeth  when  I  speak  of  Phil?  One  would 
say  you  were  going  to  eat  some  one  up.  Phil  does  n  't 
hear  us,  you  know;  he  is  up  there  with  Helia,  who  is 
posing  for  him  in  what  they  used  to  call  their  oasis— the 
garden,  you  know,  where  you  wanted  to  grow  potatoes. 
Oh,  forgive  me,  my  little  Poufaille,  I  did  n't  wish  to  hurt 
your  feelings,"  Suzanne  added  quickly,  as  she  saw  Pou- 
faille clenching  his  fist  at  the  remembrance  of  the  re- 
jected potatoes,  as  painful  to  him  as  the  stolen  share  of 
glory.  Poufaille  went  back  to  work  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"Besides,"  Suzanne  went  on,  "you  know  I  'm  not  so 
stuck  on  Phil  myself  any  more,  and  I  wish  he  were  here, 
to  tell  him  what  I  think  of  his  way  of  acting  toward 
Helia.  I  would  n't  hide  the  truth  from  him ;  and  I  'd  like 
to  know  if  he  'd  answer  as  he  used  to  do  in  his  attic — 
'  I  'm  not  that  kind  of  a  man !  *  Ah  ! ' '  Suzanne  continued, 
' '  you  're  all  the  same,  you  men !  You  're  not  worth  the 
rcpe  to  hang  you!" 

Poufaille  sighed  as  if  his  heart  were  breaking.  He 
kept  on  painting  his  goat  and  kids. 


A  QUEEN  FOR  KINGS  251 

"I  wish  you  had  been  there  when  the  garc,on  brought 
me  in, ' '  Suzanne  began  again,  to  finish  her  story.  * '  Im- 
agine a  table  all  spread  with  fruits  and  flowers  and 
lights ;  and  whom  do  I  see  coming  toward  me  but  the 
duke,  in  evening  clothes,  leaning  over  and  kissing  my 
hand.  I  had  my  veil  down  and  he  did  not  recognize 
me— it  was  Helia  he  was  waiting  for;  the  duke  had  in- 
vited her  with  a  little  note,  very  well  expressed,  you 
know,  such  as  dukes  know  how  to  write.  When  Helia 
had  opened  the  note  she  asked  me  to  go  and  present  her 
excuses.  You  can  imagine  I  took  the  opportunity — I 
whom  you  see  before  you.  I  had  supped  before  that 
with  smart  people,  but  with  a  duke  never !  What  would 
you  have  done,  Poufaille?  That  humbug  of  a  Caracal 
once  told  me  I  should  have  to  get  down  on  my  knees 
when  I  spoke  to  him.  Well,  I  just  took  off  my  veil  and 
said :  '  Cuckoo !  It  's  me  !  You  're  waiting  for  Helia, 
but  she  begs  to  be  excused ! '  Would  you  think  men 
could  be  so  odd?  My  little  Poufaille,  Helia 's  stock  went 
up  with  him  at  once.  I  could  see  it  by  the  way  he  spoke 
of  her.  But  never  mind  that ;  he  was  very  amiable  and 
kept  me  to  dinner.  I  did  n't  wish  to,  but  he  insisted  so 
— and  it  's  a  very  chic  place,  that  restaurant.  Then  all 
at  once  there  was  a  squabble  at  the  door  and  I  saw  two 
bears  coming  in ! — I  mean  two  men  like  bears,  bowing  to 
the  ground  to  the  duke  and  calling  him  monseigneur. 
They  spoke  of  lots  of  things— that  they  had  just  come 
from  the  monseigneur 's  house;  that  they  had  been  told 
monseigneur  was  in  diplomatic  consultation — et  patati  et 
patata — and  then  there  was  Turkey  and  Morgania  and 
I  don't  know  what  all.  The  duke  had  a  very  embar- 


252  FATA  MORGANA 

rassed  look— 'my  dear  Zrnitschka— Bjelopawlitji— my 
dear  minister — ' 

"Ministers — those  two  bears!  I  was  bursting!  And, 
on  my  word,  I  believe  the  duke  presented  me  as  the  diplo- 
matic agent !  After  that  there  was  dinner  and  jokes  and 
songs,  and  the  duke  brewed  a  champagne  salad,  while  I 
tickled  the  two  bears  under  the  chin  to  make  them  swal- 
low brandied  cherries." 

Suzanne  spoke  in  vain.  Poufaille  kept  the  fated  look 
of  a  man  who  has  been  grazed  by  glory  as  it  passes.  He 
lifted  his  head  sullenly  and  then  let  it  fall  again  on  his 
breast,  as  if  crushed. 

"Attention!"  suddenly  cried  Suzanne,  who  was  look- 
ing down  the  gallery.  "Here  are  serious  customers — 
Miss  Rowrer  and  Mme.  Rowrer,  Mr.  Will,  the  duke, 
and  Caracal.  I  'm  sure  they  're  going  to  visit  Phil  up 
there  in  his  oasis.  Helia  is  n't  expecting  such  an 
honor ! ' ' 

Miss  Rowrer  and  her  party  came  on,  a  compact  group 
among  the  scattered  visitors.  Ethel  was  listening  ab- 
sently to  Caracal.  Grandma  was  examining  the  crowd. 
The  duke  was  winking  at  the  pictures,  while  Will  looked 
at  the  parquet  floor. 

Caracal  seemed  delighted.  Besides  his  opportunity 
to  shine  by  telling  off  names  and  dates,  he  was  also  going 
to  show  the  party  one  of  the  hanging  gardens  of  Paris. 
Presently  he  would  explain  the  very  modus  operandi 
for  making  such  blooming  terraces— fine  sand,  tar, 
gravel,  and  earth. 

"You  know,  Miss  Rowrer,  you  go  to  the  Louvre  Gar- 
dens up  a  staircase." 


Suzanne  aiid  Poufaille  at  the  Louvre 


A  QUEEN   FOR  KINGS  265 

' '  Awful ! ' '  said  grandma. 

"A  winding  staircase  cut  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall." 

"Really!  Oh,  how  nice  that  is!"  said  Ethel,  to  whom 
these  little  details  gave  the  sensation  of  being  abroad. 
She  forgave  the  lack  of  an  elevator,  as  long  as  the  stair- 
case was  winding  and  cut  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall— 
something  impossible  to  find  in  her  own  country. 

"It  's  a  kind  of  Jacob's  ladder  that  will  take  us  up  to 
Paradise,"  Caracal  continued.  "A  real  Paradise,  where 
I  myself  have  known  an  Adam  and  Eve,  known  them 
personally,  intimately ! ' ' 

"Oh,  M.  Caracal,  don't  talk  of  that  now,"  Miss  Row- 
rer  said,  "but  tell  me  what  this  picture  is." 

Caracal  explained  the  picture,  regretting  that  Ethel 
did  not  question  him  about  the  Adam  and  Eve  he  had 
known  in  the  Paradise. 

Poufaille,  who  had  lifted  his  head,  lowered  it  'quickly. 
The  party  was  just  in  front  of  him,  all  looking  at  his 
picture.  He  had  heard  Caracal  say  to  Miss  Rowrer: 
"An  artist,  a  great  artist,  with  a  brain,  but  no  luck! 
It  is  incredible,  his  lack  of  luck— I  could  tell  you  a 
story—" 

But  Caracal  was  interrupted  by  grandma,  who  no- 
ticed the  frayed  cravat  and  worn  shoes  of  Poufaille,  and 
pointed  him  out  to  Will.  Caracal  presented  Poufaille, 
who  nearly  fell  from  his  high  stool.  The  duke  bowed. 
Ethel  greeted  him  cordially,  as  well  as  Suzanne,  at  whom 
the  duke  did  not  even  look. 

"That's  the  way  of  the  world!"  Suzanne  thought 
within  herself. 

"Do  you  really  wish  me  to  buy  such  a  daub?"  Will 


256  FATA  MORGANA 

said  in  an  aside  to  grandma,  after  judging,  at  a  glance, 
the  "Goat  and  the  Kids." 

"Poor  devil!  he  is  in  rags,"  Ethel  murmured. 

"All  right,"  Will  answered;  "it  's  frightful,  but  I'll 
send  it  to  my  farm  in  Texas— it  will  give  them  a  poor 
idea  of  grazing  in  the  old  country!" 

Poufaille  felt  his  legs  tremble  under  him,  and  thought 
all  the  torrents  of  Pactolus  were  pouring  down  upon  him 
when  Will,  taking  his  leave,  gave  him  in  advance  the 
money  for  the  order. 

"Au  revoir,  Mile.  Suzanne !  M.  Poufaille,  au  revoir !" 
Miss  Rowrer  said,  not  a  little  flattered  to  know,  not  a 
Charley,  but  a  real  and  genuine  bohemian. 

With  a  final  bow,  Poufaille  watched  the  party  going 
away,  in  utter  amazement  at  the  possession  of  so  much 
money. 

"Vive  la  joie— and  fried  potatoes!"  Suzanne  said,  by 
way  of  moral. 

Soon  Ethel  and  grandma,  Will,  the  duke,  and  Caracal 
were  lost  in  the  distance.  - 

"You  would  think  Caracal  was  the  chief  of  the  party," 
Suzanne  remarked  to  Poufaille;  "only  look — you  see 
nothing  but  him!" 

Indeed,  Caracal,  who  at  first  was  abashed  at  not  being 
allowed  to  tell  the  story  of  Adam  and  Eve,  nor  that  of 
the  false  signature  of  the  Luxembourg,  became  doubly 
amiable,  and  fished  for  compliments  because  of  his  cour- 
ageous behavior  toward  Vieillecloche,  a  man  with  five 
corpses  in  his  trail.  Meanwhile,  he  went  on  explaining, 
endlessly,  the  pictures  of  the  old  masters.  He  greeted 
them  as  friends;  he  spoke  familiarly  of  the  painters, 


A  QUEEN  FOR  KINGS  257 

called  them  by  their  first  names  and  their  nicknames — 
the  old  Breughel— the  young  Teniers— "Van  Ryn"  for 
Rembrandt— and  so  on. 

He  told  over  the  jokes  about  the  Louvre  Museum.  It- 
was  a  national  lounge,  heated  in  winter  and  the  place  for 
a  siesta  in  summer.  He  attacked  the  curators,  who  were 
incompetent,  to  his  thinking;  and  he  cited  the  forged 
art  objects  bought  for  their  weight  in  gold,  crowns  and 
coins  and  jewels,  and  the  famous  Holbein  on  a  mahogany 
panel— the  Louvre's  pride  up  to  the  day  when,  scratch- 
ing it  on  the  back,  the  words  appeared:  "Flor  de  Habana 
— Lawyers'  Club  Brand"! 

The  duke  passed  along  heedlessly.  The  Louvre  for  him 
was,  most  of  all,  a  place  in  which  you  can  talk  amid 
sumptuous  decoration.  His  only  real  interest  in  paint- 
ing was  in  the  hall  of  the  Italian  primitives,  before  the 
St.  Morgana  of  Botticelli. 

"St.  Morgana,  my  ancestress,"  he  said  to  Miss 
Rowrer. 

He  drew  himself  up  as  he  pointed  to  the  saint,  amid 
the  choir  of  angels,  in  a  sky  of  gold  above  a  fantastic 
landscape,  where  architecture  and  monuments  were  piled 
together.  He  seemed  moved,  especially  when  he  ex- 
plained to  Miss  Rowrer  that  he  should  definitively  be 
obliged  to  go  back  to  Morgania,  that  grave  events  were 
on  the  way,  and  that  only  the  other  evening  he  had  had 
a  diplomatic  interview  with  his  people's  delegates. 

Miss  Rowrer  liked  him  better,  with  this  air  of  one  con- 
vinced of  his  own  importance  and  duties,  than  when  he 
was  making  fun  of  himself  with  the  skeptical  tone  which 
she  abhorred.  Just  as  she  was  glad  to  know  a  real  and 


258  FATA  MORGANA 

genuine  bohemian,  so  she  was  delighted  to  walk  with  the 
scion  of  a  legendary  family,  whose  ancestress  figured  in 
the  Louvre,  painted  by  Botticelli,  surrounded  by  angels 
in  a  golden  sky.  She  found  it  amusing  to  take  the  arm 
of  a  man  in  whose  pedigree  there  was  the  equal  of  the 
White  Lady  of  Potsdam  and  the  Cavalier  of  Hatfield 
House.  It  was  all  so  un-American  and  exciting. 

She  was  also  really  at  her  ease  in  the  Louvre  among 
these  old  royal  personages.  She  pleased  herself  in  the 
midst  of  history  and  polished  courts.  Her  intelligence 
revealed  to  her  their  grandeur. 

"I  like  sincere  men  who  are  faithful  to  their  tradi- 
tions," she  said.  "There  is  a  noble  side  to  it  all  which 
I  understand." 

She  admired  the  effete  generations  who  had  heaped 
here,  to  the  very  ceiling,  royal  escutcheons  and  chimeras 
and  victories. 

"There  is  something  great  in  it,"  she  said;  "you  feel 
the  conviction  of  it.  Compare  it  with  the  frightful  style 
which  artists  bungle  with  nowadays!  The  beautiful 
has  had  its  time  here ;  it  is  our  turn  now,  in  our  great 
Republic!  Faith  in  traditions— that  is  what  produces 
masterpieces!  Whether  royalty,  as  in  the  old  times,  or 
the  Republic,  as  with  us — I  recognize  only  that." 

"But  there  is  a  golden  mean,"  the  duke  said,  con- 
ciliatingly. 

"Away  with  the  golden  mean,  with  cowardly  compro- 
mises and  satisfied  selfishness,  with  falsehood  and  insin- 
cerity. We  must  be  one  thing  or  another — loyalty  be- 
fore all  else !" 

Grandma  and  Will  approved  this. 


A  QUEEN  FOR  KINGS  259 

' '  Ah ! ' '  the  duke  thought  to  himself,  struck  by  Miss 
Rowrer  's  accents  of  conviction,  ' '  it  would  n  't  be  well  to 
fail  in  one 's  words  to  this  lady ! ' ' 

"This  is  a  Signorelli,"  Caracal  explained,  pointing 
out  a  picture;  "this  is  a  Filippo  Lippi;  this  is  a  Pin- 
turicchio. ' ' 

"Say,  M.  Caracal,  if  we  stop  at  every  picture  of  the 
Quattro  Cento  we  shall  never  reach  Paradise.  Where 
is  your  winding  staircase?" 

There  were  halls  after  halls,  marbles  and  gilding,  the 
Salon  Carre,  and  galleries  with  resplendent  jewels ;  mar- 
ble for  the  pavement,  and  tnen  parquetry  shining  like  a 
smooth  lake,  and  pictures,  and  pictures  again.  The  copy- 
ists were  up  on  their  ladders  in  galleries,  which  heap  to- 
gether civilizations  that  have  disappeared,  statues  of  gods 
and  the  mummies  of  kings,  decayed  grandeur  pell-mell 
with  fragments  of  columns  and  open  tombs  and  women's 
jewels.  And  there  was  the  crouching  sphinx  seeming  to 
take  them  to  witness  that  all  things  pass  like  a  dream. 

Miss  Rowrer  and  the  duke  walked  together.  In  front 
were  grandma  and  "Will  and  Caracal.  The  duke  sought 
to  understand  Miss  Rowrer 's  ideas,  which  seemed  con- 
tradictory to  him.  How  was  he  to  reconcile  her  admira- 
tion both  for  republic  and  royalty  ? 

"Miss  Rowrer,"  the  duke  began,  "your  theories  are 
contrary  to  progress.  Your  extreme  loyalty  implies  a 
government  which  is  unchangeable." 

"Not  at  all!"  Ethel  answered.  "Greatness  is  in 
the  constant  effort  toward  progress;  it  is  the  pursuit 
of  the  best.  A  people's  loyalty  toward  its  king  is  very 
beautiful." 


260  FATA  MORGANA 

"Eh  lien,  then!"  the  duke  replied. 

"I  told  you  my  way  of  looking  at  things  the  day  we 
visited  St.  Denis,"  Ethel  continued.  "But  you  forget  one 
thing— the  king's  loyalty  to  his  people!" 

They  were  leaving  the  gallery  and  walking  ever  on- 
ward. They  saw  a  monumental  staircase  under  a  vault 
as  high  as  a  cathedral  apse,  and  then  there  were  more 
halls,  with  marbles  and  gilding  and  galleries,  never 
ending. 

' '  But  where  is  your  Paradise  ? ' '  Miss  Rowrer  asked. 

"It  is  here,"  answered  Caracal. 

He  gave  a  glance  at  the  guardian  who  was  pacing  up 
and  down  the  hall,  and  Will  slipped  a  heavy  pourboire 
into  the  man's  hand. 

' '  Is  Monsieur  Phil  up  there  ? ' ' 

"The  former  gardener?  Yes.  Go  up."  Lifting  a 
piece  of  tapestry  at  the  corner  of  a  wall,  a  little  door 
appeared — it  was  the  door  of  the  staircase. 

"Go  ahead,  M.  Caracal;  show  us  the  way!"  Ethel 
said. 

Caracal,  proud  to  lead,  showed  them  the  way  up.  They 
went  on,  turning  round  and  round  in  single  file,  the  stair- 
case being  wide  enough  for  nothing  else. 

"This  reminds  me  of  going  up  the  Monument  in 
London,"  Ethel  said. 

"And  me  of  the  corkscrew  in  the  Mammoth  Cave," 
said  grandma. 

"Only  a  few  more  steps,"  said  Caracal,  as  he  opened 
the  door  giving  on  the  roof. 

The  light  was  dazzling.  Great  clouds  floated  high  in  a 
sky  that  was  sweet  and  calm.  Across  the  branches  of  the 


A  QUEEN  FOR  KINGS  261 

garden  they  looked  on  Paris,  bathed  in  sun.  The  great 
city  stretched  out  from  horizon  to  horizon  and,  vibrating 
with  the  heat,  seemed  to  wave  like  a  sea.  Grandma, 
Ethel,  and  Will,  as  well  as  the  duke,  stopped  short. 
While  the  distant  view  was  full  of  grandeur,  the  nearer 
scene  was  just  as  charming.  There  were  shaded  alleys, 
and  under  the  oleanders  and  apple-  and  pear-trees,  cur- 
rants and  strawberries  were  ripening.  Caracal  was  al- 
ready beginning  his  explanations. 

"The  green  spots  you  see  over  there  are  the  hanging 
gardens  of  the  Rue  de  Valois.  If  we  were  a  little  higher 
up  we  could  see  those  of  the  Automobile  Club  of  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  This  is  the  way  they  make  them— 
first  a  layer  of  Norway  tar,  then  fine  sand,  and  then 
gravel—" 

"M.  Caracal,"  Ethel  interrupted,  "you  are  right;  this 
is  a  real  Paradise ! ' ' 

"And  over  there  you  have  Adam  and  Eve,"  Caracal 
said,  pointing  amid  the  greenery  to  where  Phil  was  paint- 
ing Helia,  posed  in  an  old  arm-chair  half  hidden  by 
climbing  plants. 

"That  is  what  is  best  in  the  Louvre,"  Ethel  said  to 
the  group,  looking  at  Helia.  "Let  us  greet  her  Majesty 
Beauty!" 

Phil  had  just  caught  sight  of  Ethel  and  her  party. 
He  hurriedly  laid  down  his  palette  and  came  forward. 
Helia  saw  them  also,  and  arose  and  bowed.  Ethel 
recognized  her  and  spoke  with  a  friendly  manner.  They 
looked  at  each  other  in  that  peculiar  way  which  women 
have  of  taking  each  other's  measure, — it  was  like  a  mute 
dialogue  between  Beauty  and  Culture.  But  Beauty— 


262  FATA  MORGANA 

poor  Helia— lowered  her  eyes.  She  became  humble  and 
acknowledged  herself  vanquished. 

For  Helia  no  longer  had  any  hope.  She  understood, 
she  saw  with  fright  the  ever-growing  distance  between 
herself  and  Phil.  Ah,  no !  Phil  was  no  longer  the  same ; 
he  was  above  her,  far  above,  among  the  rich  and  power- 
ful ;  and  he  would  continue  his  upward  march,  while  she, 
Helia,  would,  little  by  little,  go  downwards. 

She  had  agreed  to  pose  for  him  that  day — it  was  the 
decisive  test.  It  had  cost  her  much  to  do  it.  Phil,  after 
all,  ought  to  know  what  his  conscience  told  him  to  do ; 
but  she  did  not  wish  there  should  be  any  fault  on 
her  part.  She  had  never  had  the  courage  to  say  to  herself 
it  was  all  over,  until  this  day,  which  she  was  passing  alone 
with  him.  She  had  come  to  see  if  he  would  remember— if 
the  trees  in  bloom  amid  their  oasis  would  recall  anything 
to  him.  She  counted  on  the  complicity  of  the  blue  sky 
and  the  fragrance  of  roses.  But  the  day  had  passed, 
under  the  splendid  heavens,  and  they  had  not,  as  in 
other  days,  gathered  fruit  from  the  trees  or  picked  flow- 
ers from  the  parterres.  Phil  had  been  good-natured,  but 
he  was  like  a  friend  and  nothing  more.  Phil — she  saw  it 
clearly — Phil  would  be  a  stranger  for  her  to-morrow. 
Who  knows  ?  The  time  might  come  when  he  would  forget 
even  her  name. 

Helia  acknowledged  that  it  was  possible  when  she 
looked  at  Miss  Rowrer,  who  drew  near  and  began  chat- 
ting with  Phil.  What  charm  there  was  in  her  words! 
Helia  was  never  tired  of  listening  to  her.  She  felt  no 
jealousy  of  Ethel,  whose  goodness  saved  her  from  envy. 
She  admired  her  in  silence.  Sometimes,  like  a  lightning 


A  QUEEN  FOB  KINGS  263 

flash,  she  seemed  to  understand  the  abyss  which  sepa- 
rated them,  and  then  everything  reentered  the  shadow. 
No — she  did  not  know;  everything  escaped  her  grasp 
in  that  sphere  of  life,  more  inaccessible  to  her  than 
the  white  clouds  up  in  the  depths  of  the  azure.  What 
had  she  with  which  to  struggle  against  this  young  girl, 
so  brilliant  and  so  playful,  before  whom  Phil  and  the 
duke  were  content  to  seem  little  ?  And  then,  she  was  so 
rich! 

But  Helia  blushed  for  herself  and  quickly  cast  away 
any  thoughts  of  Miss  Rowrer's  wealth.  Since  she  could 
not  help  loving  Phil,  she  at  least  would  not  cease  giving 
him  her  esteem.  She  looked  in  a  sort  of  fear  at  Miss 
Rowrer,  of  whom  so  much  was  said,  and  who  seemed  so 
simple  and  gay.  What  could  she  do  against  so  many 
advantages— she,  Helia,  who  had  only  her  beauty?  And 
perhaps  Phil  found  her  ugly  now ! 

"What  are  you  painting?"  Ethel  asked  Phil.  "I 
suppose  I  may  look." 

"Miss  Rowrer,  I  beg  you,"  Phil  answered,  "give  me 
your  advice." 

Miss  Rowrer  squinted  with  her  eye,  measured  and 
made  a  few  professional  gestures,  probably  the  only 
thing  she  retained  from  her  art  studies  among  so  many 
social  duties.  She  remarked  a  few  things,  showing  re- 
fined tastes,  and  then  looked  at  Helia  as  a  connoisseur. 

She  admired  her  noble  profile,  like  that  of  a  marble 
Venus,  her  full  neck  and  bare  arms,  and  the  sumptuous 
thickness  of  her  hair  over  shoulders  which  would  have 
thrown  Phidias  into  despair. 

"What  success  a  young  girl  like  that  would  have  in 


264  FATA   MORGANA 

society — if  she  belonged  to  society —  "  thought  Miss  Row- 
rer.  ' '  Ought  not  beauty  like  that  to  overcome  all  social 
distinctions  ? ' ' 

Helia  appeared  to  Miss  Rowrer  as  the  splendid  flower- 
ing of  the  Louvre,  personifying  in  herself  all  the  master- 
pieces heaped  up  beneath  their  feet— all  that  men  have 
loved  and  made  divine  in  marble  or  on  canvas.  At  her 
feet  roses  and  fuchsias  breathed  forth  their  fragrance, 
sweet  as  the  Attic  breeze. 

"What  you  are  doing  there,  Monsieur  Phil,  is  very  fine 
—a  magnificent  study,"  Miss  Rowrer  said.  ''But  it  is 
not  up  to  the  model.  Is  it,  Monsieur  le  Due?" 

The  duke  assented. 

"Tell  me,  Monsieur  Phil,"  Miss  Rowrer  continued, 
' '  what  is  that  thing  on  the  ground,  with  your  palette  on 
top  of  it?" 

She  pointed  to  one  of  the  busts  which  lined  the  walks. 

"Those  are  busts,"  Phil  began. 

"Yes,  but  of  whom?"  Ethel  asked. 

"Imperial  and  presidential  busts,"  Phil  explained, 
"Napoleon  III,  Charles  X,  Louis  Philippe." 

"Really,"  Miss  Rowrer  said,  with  amusement;  "only 
think,  each  bust  represents  a  revolution.  They  are  sov- 
ereigns who  no  longer  pleased — let  them  be  an  example 
to  you,  monseigneur, "  she  added,  laughing.  "This  is 
not  Paradise,  then,  but  the  other  place— each  of  these 
busts  is  a  paving-stone  of  good  intentions ! ' ' 

"And  that,  Phil,  that  old  arm-chair  which  has  lost  its 
gilding?  Mademoiselle  Helia,  who  was  in  it  just  now, 
looked,  with  these  busts  at  her  feet,  like  a  sovereign  sur- 
rounded by  the  dwarfs  of  the  court.  What  is  that  old 
arm-chair  ? ' ' 


Ethel  and  the  Royal  Throne 


A  QUEEN  FOR  KINGS  267 

"A  throne,  Miss  Rowrer!" 

"Now  you  are  laughing  at  me!" 

"Not  at  all." 

"The  throne  of  some  fairy  king?" 

"The  throne  of  King  Louis  Philippe,"  answered  Phil. 
In  a  few  words  he  explained  how  it  happened  to  be  there 
in  the  company  of  the  busts. 

"It  is  not  a  very  comfortable  seat,"  grandma  re- 
marked. 

"They  'd  make  a  better  one  than  that  at  Grand  Rap- 
ids," Will  added. 

"Will  you  try  it,  Miss  Rowrer?"  Caracal  hastened  to 
ask.  "Be  seated  on  the  throne;  you  might  believe  your- 
self a  queen." 

"  Ah !  that  's  all  the  same  to  me, ' '  said  Miss  Rowrer. 

' '  The  queen  you  are  worthy  to  be, ' '  Caracal  corrected, 
by  way  of  compliment.  "You  would  not  have  ill  become 
Louis  Philippe 's  throne,  I  imagine. ' ' 

"I  hope  not,  indeed,"  Ethel  replied.  "What!  that 
bourgeois  king,  that  king  of  the  golden  mean,  who  was 
neither  brave  nor  cowardly,  without  vice  as  without 
virtue,  flat,  like  a  pancake ;  an  old  wolf  turned  shepherd  ? 
And  I  could  sit  on  a  throne  and  fancy  myself  the  consort 
of  that  imitation  goodman,  be  queen  of  such  a  king? 
Even  for  his  kingdom,  I  would  not!" 

Helia  looked  at  Miss  Rowrer  as  she  prodded  with  her 
parasol  the  worn  velvet  of  the  throne.  She  thought  of 
her  own  half  hesitation  to  sit  down  in  it  the  first  time 
she  came  to  the  oasis,  and  how  she  had  answered  Phil: 
"A  king's  throne!  You  wouldn't  think  of  it — a  poor 
girl  like  me !"  To  her  it  had  seemed  a  sort  of  sacrilege, 


268  FATA   MORGANA 

whereas  Miss  Rowrer,  quite  the  contrary,  turned  hen 
back  on  it  with  disdain  and  walked  away,  saying  to  the 
duke  and  Phil : 

"Louis  Philippe  was  possibly  a  king,  but  at  any  rate 
he  was  not  a  man !  The  people  did  well  to  cast  him  out." 

And  Helia  asked  herself  in  amazement:  "Who  is  this 
Miss  Rowrer  that  judges  kings  and  would  refuse  them 
their  kingdoms?  Is  she,  then,  more  than  a  queen?" 


PART  III 

YOUTHFUL  FOLLIES 


CHAPTER  I 

TEUFP-TEUPF  !  TEUFF  !  BRER  ! 

WE  should  need  words  from  the  old,  old  time, 
worn  from  long  use,  to  give  an  idea  of  Mme. 
de  Grojean's  house  in  her  little  corner  of  the 
provinces.  It  was  typical  of  its  kind  and  just  the  op- 
posite of  any  truly  Parisian  corner.  The  latter  would 
have  been  a  populous,  noisy  street,  with  odors  from  the 
markets,  from  horses,  from  tobacco.  The  former  was  a 
deserted  street,  where  you  could  hear  sparrows  chattering 
on  the  housetops  and  breathe  the  fragrance  of  migno- 
nette and  new-mown  hay. 

The  house  of  Mme.  de  Grojean — "  grand  'mere, "  as 
Yvonne  called  her — formed  the  angle  of  a  street  on  a 
very  provincial  place.  It  was  on  an  open  space,  in  the 
middle  of  which  a  water-jet,  long  since  dry,  marked  on 
its  basin  a  turning  shadow  like  a  sun-dial. 

The  house  and  garden  wall  formed  one  of  the  sides 
of  the  place  as  far  as  the  river,  which  was  crossed  by  a 
bridge ;  and,  beyond,  the  plain  stretched  out. 

Place  and  house,  and  trees  overhanging  the  wall,  and 

the  street  where  grass  grew  between  the  paving-stones— 

all  had  the  look  of  having  always  been  there,  of  being 

there  forever,— changeless  as  the  hills  of  the  horizon. 

271 


272  FATA  MORGANA 

But  worthiest  of  description  was  the  salon  where 
grand 'mere  with  her  daughter  and  her  granddaughter 
Yvonne  were  seated  in  the  dim  light,  amid  tapestries  of 
old  silk  and  brown  furniture,  with  glints  of  brass  and 
portraits  in  their  frames. 

Grand 'mere  sat  squarely  back  in  her  wheeled  chair, 
knitting  a  pair  of  stockings.  The  younger  Mme.  de  Gro- 
jean  was  looking  through  a  fashion-paper.  Yvonne,  by 
the  half-opened  blinds,  glanced  from  time  to  time  out  on 
the  place  while  continuing  her  work.  Her  little  table 
was  encumbered  with  ribbons  and  light  stuffs.  She  was 
finishing  a  gown,  with  a  heap  of  patterns  around  her; 
and  her  little  scissors  traveled  slowly  through  the  muslin. 

"It  's  this  ribbon  that  gives  me  trouble,"  Yvonne  said, 
half  aloud,  as  if  speaking  to  herself.  "Why,  this  ribbon 
should  go  on  the  right ! "  she  went  on,  with  a  comical  air 
of  surprise. 

"By  no  means,  my  daughter!"  Mme.  de  Grojean  pro- 
tested. 

"Yes,  yes!  I  assure  you.  Look  at  the  fashion-paper. 
I  must  find  out  for  myself, ' '  Yvonne  concluded  gravely, 
with  her  chin  in  her  hand  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  en- 
graving. "I  shall  have  to  ask  Cousin  Henri,  who  was 
present  at  the  last  ball  of  the  prefecture." 

"Yvonne,"  said  the  grandmother,  stopping  her  knit- 
ting, "Yvonne,  really,  you  have  nothing  but  dresses  in 
your  head.  Rather  than  lose  your  time  on  such  trifles, 
you  'd  do  better  to  finish  picking  the  lint  for  the  sol- 
diers." 

"Grand 'mere,  here  's  the  circus  coming!"  Yvonne  in- 
terrupted suddenly,  as  she  looked  out  on  the  place. 


c    .^...kfT^j 
Watching  the  Arrival  of  the  Kowrers 


TEUFF-TEUFF!  TEUFF!  BRRB!       275 

"Those  mountebanks?"  grand 'mere  said,  looking  in 
her  turn.  "They  are  coming  to  the  fair,  just  as  they  do 
every  year.  It  must  be  they — I  can  tell  by  the  dust  they 
make.  Only  the  big  drum  is  lacking  to  make  it  com- 
plete." 

In  fact,  an  odd-looking  vehicle  had  drawn  up  in  the 
place.  It  was  an  immense  auto,  like  a  top-carriage  be- 
hind and  torpedo-like  in  front.  In  the  carriage  part  two 
ladies  were  seated;  two  men  occupied  the  torpedo-end. 
They  wore  big  smoked  glasses,  which  made  them  look  like 
frogs,  while  the  enormous  auto,  spitting  and  snorting, 
shook  up  its  passengers,  and  rattled  the  canes  and  um- 
brellas in  the  wicker  basket  behind. 

"It  is  near  four  o'clock,"  grand 'mere  said,  consulting 
the  familiar  shadow  of  the  water-jet.  "They  must  be 
crazy  to  be  exposing  themselves  to  the  heat;  but  such 
people  fear  nothing." 

' '  They  're  brought  up  to  rough  it, ' '  Yvonne  remarked. 

"But  people  are  saluting  them,  on  my  word,"  grand '- 
mere  said.  ' '  There  is  the  adjoint,  who  must  be  there  for 
the  license ;  and  there  's  Mme.  Ric,ois  also,  and  others 
besides.  It  looks  as  if  they  were  personal  acquaintances ; 
they  are  shaking  hands!" 

Grand 'mere  in  astonishment  saw  the  ladies  in  the  car- 
riage-end part  holding  out  their  hands  like  princesses. 
One  of  them,  the  younger,  got  down  and  moved  about  to 
stir  herself.  As  far  as  could  be  seen  at  that  distance, 
between  dust  and  sun,  she  was  dressed  in  a  light  silk, 
very  becoming  in  color.  The  plaits  of  the  skirt  molded 
her  form,  and  fell  to  a  level  with  the  ground.  Her  head, 
enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  gauze,  was  not  to  be  seen. 


276  FATA  MORGANA 

"Where  will  elegance  end,  my  poor  Yvonne?"  said 
grand  'mere.  ' '  There  's  a  gown  worth  five  times  as  much 
as  your  ball-dress." 

"Oh,  here  are  the  horses!"  Yvonne  cried,  pointing  to 
magnificent  animals  which  grooms  were  leading  by  the 
bridle  from  the  direction  of  the  railway  station.  As  they 
passed  by  the  auto  the  young  girl  went  up  to  one  of  them, 
patted  him  on  the  neck,  and,  putting  her  hand  in  her 
pocket,  gave  him  a  lump  of  sugar. 

' '  She  must  be  the  circus-rider, ' '  Yvonne  guessed. 

On  the  place  there  was  now  a  little  group  of  curious 
onlookers  drawing  near.  The  proprietor  of  the  Lion 
d'Or  made  himself  important.  They  could  imagine  him 
at  that  distance  saying:  "The  Lion  d'Or  is  the  tourists' 
rendezvous — every  one  puts  up  at  my  place — every  one. 
I  do  this— I  have  that—" 

He  had  not  the  time  to  finish  before  the  young  girl 
had  quickly  climbed  back  into  the  auto,  given  orders 
to  the  groom,  pointed  to  the  inn,  and  made  a  sign  of 
farewell  to  everybody. 

Teuff-teuff !  teuff !  The  auto  swung  into  movement— 
teuff-teuff !  brrrr !  and  off  it  went  at  high  speed. 

' '  Bon  voyage ! ' '  grand  'mere  wished  them.  ' '  How  can 
people  be  allowed  to  race  about  like  that!  and  all  these 
do-nothings  who  salute  them,— they  couldn't  be  more 
polite  to  ambassadors ! ' ' 

No  doubt  it  was  an  event.  Every  one  along  the  road 
stared  at  the  disappearing  column  of  dust. 

"It  's  a  strange  world,"  said  grand 'mere.  "But  here 
comes  Mme.  Rigois;  she  may  tell  us  something  about 
them." 


The  Arrival  of  the  Rowrers 


TEUFF-TEUFF!  TEUFF!  BRRR!       279 

Grand 'mere  had  scarcely  finished  when  the  bonne 
opened  the  salon  door  and  announced  Mme.  Ric,ois,  the 
banker's  wife,  a  little  woman  all  fire  and  motion,  alert 
and  dimpled  and  forever  laughing. 

"My  compliments,  dear  Mme.  Ric,ois.  You  have  fine 
acquaintances ! ' '  grand  'mere  began.  ' '  You  can  tell  us,  I 
suppose,  what  has  been  turning  our  place  upside  down." 

"But  you  ought  to  know,"  Mme.  Ric,ois  answered; 
' '  Yvonne  is  better  acquainted  with  them  than  I  am. ' ' 

"Yvonne  is  acquainted  with  them?"  grand 'mere 
asked  severely.  ' '  Who  are  they  ? ' ' 

"The  Rowrers." 

"Goodness  gracious!"  cried  grand 'mere,  "in  all  this 
dust — and  in  such  heat?" 

"The  Rowrers — what  luck!"  Yvonne  cried.  "I  shall 
see  Miss  Ethel  again ;  and  I  did  not  recognize  her !  All 
those  dusters  and  masks  and  veils— they  didn't  wear 
anything  like  that  in  Paris  the  day  I  went  in  their  auto, 
with  Mr.  Will  Rowrer  to  conduct  us. ' ' 

' '  Are  they  going  to  stay  in  our  town  ? ' '  Mme.  de  Gro- 
jean  asked. 

"For  several  weeks,  it  seems." 

"Where  are  they  stopping?"  grand 'mere  asked.  "At 
the  Hotel  de  France  or  at  the  Hotel  d 'Europe?" 

"They  are  not  at  a  hotel,"  answered  Mme.  Ricois,  with 
an  important  air,  as  one  having  a  great  piece  of  news  to 
communicate. 

"Where  are  they  going,  then?"  grand 'mere  persisted. 

"To  nobody's  house." 

"But  where  are  they  going  to  sleep  ?  Not  in  the  fields, 
I  suppose?" 


280  FATA  MORGANA 

"Exactly— in  the  fields,"  Mme.  Ric,ois  said,  looking  in 
turn  at  grand 'mere,  Mme.  de  Grojean,  and  Yvonne,  to 
enjoy  their  astonishment. 

"You  mean  a  house  in  the  country?"  grand 'mere 
said.  "What  house?" 

"No  house,"  Mme.  Ric/ris  answered. 

"Not  in  the  open  air,  I  suppose?" 

"Exactly;  in  the  open  air!" 

The  effect  which  Mme.  Rigois  had  missed  with  "the 
fields ' '  was  produced  by  her  ' '  open  air. ' ' 

"Is  it  possible ! ' '  grand  'mere  said,  as  she  let  her  knit- 
ting fall.  "People  as  rich  as  that  sleep  out  of  doors?" 

' '  Rich ! ' '  observed  Mme.  Ricois.  ' '  They  could  buy  the 
town  and  turn  it  into  wheat-fields ! ' ' 

' '  Then  they  must  be  crazy ! ' ' 

"For  that  matter,"  Mme.  Rigois  went  on,  "when  I  say 
that  they  sleep  out  of  doors —  " 

"Do  tell  us— you  're  laughing  at  us!" 

"No,  no!  Let  me  explain.  They  are  going  to  sleep 
out  of  doors,  but  under  tents — camping  out,  they  call  it 
in  America.  I  know  all  about  it.  My  husband  has  been 
in  correspondence  with  the  Rowrers  and  has  had  all  the 
arrangements  to  make.  The  Comtesse  de  Donjeon  asked 
them  to  come  to  her  chateau  for  the  summer.  Miss  Row- 
rer  simply  begged  the  comtesse  to  put  at  her  disposal  a 
corner  of  her  estate,  the  most  deserted  and  the  most 
picturesque.  She  has  taken  the  part  she  wished  and  set 
up  her  camp  in  it.  She  wanted  to  have  it  a  surprise, 
and  that  is  why  I  kept  it  a  secret.  It  seems  that  camping 
out  is  delightful  and  Miss  Rowrer  intends  starting  the 
fashion  of  it  in  France." 


TEUFF-TEUFF!    TEUFF!    BRRR!  281 

"Poor  France!"  grand 'mere  exclaimed.  "We  needed 
only  that !  It  's  just  like  the  automobiles.  I  'd  rather  be 
dragged  about  all  my  life  in  a  cripple 's  go-cart  than  get 
into  one." 

"Not  I!"  said  Yvonne.  "I  should  love  going  in  an 
auto!" 

"Yvonne!"  expostulated  grand 'mere. 

Yvonne  was  silent,  but  thought,  all  the  same,  how  de- 
lightful it  would  be  to  go  here  and  there  in  the  country 
and  live  under  one 's  tent,  by  the  bank  of  the  river,  along 
with  Ethel.  She  listened  absently  to  the  remainder  of 
the  conversation,  and  looked  far  away  at  the  highroad, 
golden  with  dust  and  with  the  green  grass  beside  it. 

Grand 'mere  took  up  the  discourse. 

"What  is  camping  out,  anyway?" 

"Oh,  it  's  all  very  simple,"  Mme.  Ricjois  answered.  "I 
have  heard  my  husband  talking  about  it." 

"And  I  have  heard  Miss  Ethel,"  said  Yvonne.  "She 
describes  it  so  well ! ' ' 

"But  explain  it  to  me,"  grand 'mere  said. 

They  gave  her  an  explanation,  in  all  its  details,  of 
camping  out  and  summer  touring  and  fishing,  of  chape- 
rons and  boys  and  girls. 

"What!"  grand 'mere  cried,  "young  men  and  young 
girls  go  camping  out  like  that  in  the  woods  for  weeks 
together,  simply  accompanied  by  a  chaperon,  and  you 
consider  that  proper?" 

"Ma  foi,  yes,"  said  Mme.  RiQois.  "I  should  have  been 
delighted  with  anything  of  the  kind." 

Yvonne  kept  silence,  but  she  asked  herself  what  harm 
there  could  be  in  walking  through  the  country  with 


282  FATA  MORGANA 

Monsieur  Will  or  Monsieur  Phil.  Miss  Ethel  did  it- 
why  should  not  she? 

"So  that  is  what  you  call  progress,"  grand 'mere  ob- 
served. "Milliardaires  making  their  horses  travel  by 
express  train  and  lodging  them  at  the  hotel,  while  they 
themselves  wander  along  the  highroads  and  sleep  out  of 
doors  like  vagabonds — you  must  acknowledge  it  does 
not  sound  well!" 

"Perhaps  you  like  that  kind  of  thing  better,"  Mme. 
RiQois  retorted,  pointing  to  the  place. 

An  omnibus  was  driving  up  from  the  station,  loaded 
with  trunks  and  packages,  with  its  horses  prancing  heav- 
ily. A  traveler,  with  a  single  glass  in  his  eye,  was  look- 
ing out. 

The  emotion  aroused  by  the  auto  had  scarcely  calmed 
down.  People  were  standing  in  the  place  in  front  of  the 
hotel,  which  the  last  of  the  Rowrers'  horses  had  just 
entered.  A  few  curious  faces  were  still  to  be  seen  at  the 
windows.  The  traveler,  evidently  thinking  that  all  this 
was  in  his  honor,  bowed  all  around  in  his  satisfaction 
at  their  welcome.  As  he  got  out  of  the  omnibus  at  the 
Lion  d'Or,  amiable  smiles  were  awaiting  him— a  polite- 
ness which  he  repaid  with  a  nod,  as  if  to  say,  "Greatly 
flattered,  believe  me!" 

"Him  I  recognize,"  said  Yvonne.  "I  saw  him  two  or 
three  times  in  Paris.  That  is  M.  Caracal." 

But  grand 'mere  no  longer  listened.  She  had  returned 
to  her  knitting.  The  place  no  longer  interested  her ;  too 
many  people  were  passing  there.  All  this  movement 
annoyed  her.  Why  do  not  people  stay  at  home?  Mean- 
while Caracal's  manceuvers  were  amusing  Yvonne. 


TEUFF-TEUFF!  TEUFF!  BRRR!       283 

"Poor  M.  Caracal,"  she  thought;  "there  he  is,  politely 
bowing  to  every  one.  Really,  he  seems  persuaded  that 
they  've  all  come  out  to  welcome  him !  If  he  knew  that 
it  was  all  for  horses  and  an  auto,  his  vanity  as  a  writer 
would  be  wounded." 

Yvonne  sympathized  with  him,  but  she  could  not  help 
being  amused  at  the  sight  of  Caracal  jumping  about  like 
a  puppet,  giving  orders  about  his  trunks,  and  at  last, 
when  the  crowd  had  seen  enough  of  him,  entering  the 
Lion  d'Or  behind  the  Rowrers'  horses. 


CHAPTER  II 

IN  CAMP 

GRAND 'MERE  de  Grojean  was  talking  about 
camping  out,  with  many  an  "est-ce  possible!" 
and  "Grand  Dieu!"  and  Mademoiselle  Yvonne 
was  looking  at  the  dust  in  the  distance,  while  Miss  Rowrer 
and  grandma  were  already  inspecting  their  camping- 
ground. 

"How  well  off  we  shall  be  here,  Ethel !"  grandma  said. 
"What  a  capital  idea!  We  shall  breathe  freely  and,  in 
spite  of  being  in  an  old  country,  we  shall  have  new 
experiences.  I  like  new  things!" 

It  was  in  full  July.  For  several  weeks  Miss  Rowrer 
had  had  the  intention  of  quitting  Paris.  First  of  all,  it 
was  hot,  and  there  was  nothing  to  see,  now  that  the 
Grand  Prix  race  had  been  run.  Besides,  the  national 
holiday  of  the  Fourteenth  of  July  was  drawing  near, 
and  then  the  sovereign  people  dance  and  eat  and  drink 
in  the  street,  which  is  really  too  common ! 

' '  Let  us  hurry  away ! ' '  Miss  Rowrer  said.  ' '  Let  us  not 
take  back  to  America  a  bad  opinion  of  France.  We  must 
not  judge  it  by  Paris.  Let  us  go  and  see  France  at  home 
—away  from  dust  and  dances  and  noise,  away  from 
punch  d'indignation.  The  countess  has  invited  us  to 
284 


IN  CAMP  285 

pass  the  summer  in  her  chateau;  with  her  leave,  we  '11 
pass  it  in  her  park.  Let  me  arrange  it." 

Miss  Rowrer  had  chosen  a  hill  from  which  you  could 
see  the  whole  country-side.  Then  she  sent  for  a  house- 
furnisher,  told  him  her  plans,  saying:  "I  want  this— and 
this — and  this."  The  tradesman  remonstrated:  "But, 
mademoiselle,  that  is  never  done!"  She  finished  by 
making  him  understand,  all  the  same,  by  dint  of  repeat- 
ing, ' '  I  wish  this !  and  this !  and  this ! "  At  last,  without 
any  one  knowing  it  except  M.  Ric.ois,  who  paid  the  bills, 
the  camp  was  set  up. 

Several  square  tents,  with  a  flooring  of  boards,  had 
been  raised  amid  the  trees.  When  the  door-flaps  were 
drawn  back,  Japanese  mats  were  to  be  seen,  and,  behind 
dainty  screens,  little  brass  bedsteads  and  rocking-chairs 
and  toilet  furniture. 

The  tent  for  Will  and  Phil  had  its  beds  concealed 
under  Algerian  rugs,  which  made  lounges  for  the  day- 
time. It  served  as  a  smoking-room  for  the  dining-tent, 
which  was  set  up  alongside  very  simply,  with  an  abun- 
dance of  flowers  in  rustic  vases.  Farther  back,  hidden  in 
the  shrubbery,  were  the  kitchen  and  offices.  Near  by 
there  was  an  immense  water-butt,  ingeniously  made  to 
furnish  each  tent  with  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  fresh 
water.  There  was  also  a  tent  for  the  auto  and  for  the 
saddle-horses,  when  needed. 

"  It  is  perfect,  Ethel ! ' '  grandma  said,  looking  around. 

"I  am  well  pleased  with  it,  my  dear  grandma,"  Ethel 
acknowledged.  "It  is  not  as  good  as  Tent  City,  on 
Coronado  Beach  at  San  Diego,"  she  added,  laughing, 
"but  we  shall  be  more  at  home  here  and  the  view  is 


286  FATA  MORGANA 

superb.  How  do  you  find  it,  Phil?  Will,  are  you 
pleased?"  And  she  waved  her  hand  to  the  horizon. 

From  their  hilltop,  across  the  river  which  wound  be- 
low, they  saw  an  immense  plain.  Its  calm  beauty  im- 
pressed Ethel,  fresh  from  noisy  Paris.  France  had 
never  seemed  so  large  to  her.  Among  the  trees  there 
were  bell-towers  rising  above  red  roofs,  and  here  and 
there  high  factory-chimneys  crested  with  smoke.  It  was 
"the  province,"  wide  and  active  and  silent. 

In  the  distance,  fields  stretched  away  to  the  horizon. 
It  was  like  an  immense  sea,  with  waves  forever  motion- 
less. Wagons  moved  across  it  and  boats  glided  along  the 
waters  of  the  river,  and  on  the  roads  and  in  the  fields 
members  of  the  human  ant-hill  were  stirring  everywhere. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  Phil  said,  "and  I  am  grateful  to 
you  for  having  invited  me.  Here  I  shall  paint  from 
nature,  and  you,  Miss  Rowrer,  ought  to  do  delightful 
water-colors. ' ' 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  landscape,  Will?"  Ethel 
asked  her  brother,  who  was  examining  the  auto. 

"It  's  all  right — there  's  something  wrong  with  my 
carbureter,"  answered  Will.  "I  '11  have  to  see  to  it  at 
once.  I'll  look  at  the  landscape  later." 

' '  That  's  just  like  Will ! ' '  Ethel  remarked.  ' '  You  talk 
landscape  to  him  and  he  answers  with  carbureters  and 
floaters  and  all  the  rest.  If  you  only  listened  to  him 
you  'd  think  him  the  most  earth-bound  of  mechanicians. 
And  in  his  heart  he  is  a  poet— yes,  a  poet!  He  has  a 
little  blue  flower  in  his  heart;  perhaps  it  's  a  forget-me- 
not!" 

"The  dinner-bell  is  ringing,"  observed  Will. 


IN  CAMP  287 

* '  Well,  let 's  to  table ! ' '  Ethel  said.  ' '  There  's  nothing 
like  forty  miles  an  hour  to  give  one  an  appetite. ' ' 

The  dinner  was  delicious.  There  were  the  country 
dishes — soupe  blanchie,  artichokes  and  beans,  an  eel  in 
bouillon,  stewed  chicken  and  a  salad,  an  ice  and  the  frit- 
ters of  the  province.  The  middle  of  the  table  was  deco- 
rated with  a  magnificent  bouquet  of  roses,  while  all 
around  were  wild  flowers  of  the  fields.  The  cook  hired 
by  Mine.  Ric,ois  had  done  things  well, — too  well,  indeed. 
Over  and  above  the  flowers,  the  table  was  furnished  with 
as  many  bottles  as  in  an  inn. 

"Take  away  those  bottles  of  wine  that  litter  up  the 
table,"  Ethel  said  to  the  valet. 

"But,  mademoiselle,  what  are  you  going  to  drink?" 
asked  the  cook,  who  was  standing  near. 

"We  shall  drink  water — with  ice  in  it." 

"Water— with  ice!" 

"At  every  meal,"  Miss  Rowrer  added. 

"But  after  your  ice-cream — to  warm  up  the  stom- 
ach?" 

"Ice-water! "said  Ethel. 

Over  the  cook's  face  there  crept  an  expression  of 
terror  and  pity.  To  console  her,  Ethel  complimented 
her  cookery,  but  the  smile  had  vanished  from  the  good 
woman 's  lips  until  they  asked  her  recipe  for  the  fritters. 

"I  '11  take  it  back  to  Chicago  with  me,"  said  grandma. 
"We  '11  give  a  german,  and  we  '11  have  pastry  just  like 
that  on  the  sideboard.  It  will  be  a  novelty." 

Ethel,  after  the  meal,  pretended  to  light  a  cigarette, 
to  put  the  men  at  their  ease.  Will  picked  out  a  cigar, 
and  Phil,  who  patterned  himself  after  Miss  Rowrer,  took 


288  FATA  MORGANA 

a  whiff  at  a  cigarette  and  threw  it  away.  Then  he 
picked  up  his  banjo. 

"Play  us  the  'Arkansaw  Traveler'!"  grandma  asked. 
"The  very  turn  of  the  tune  makes  me  wish  to  dance." 

Ethel  spoke  up :  ' '  What  if  we  should  map  out  our 
time  for  the  two  months  we  are  to  spend  here?  We 
have,  first,  the  invitation  from  the  countess  and  her 
friends — there  are  a  rally e-paper  and  a  chasse  a  courre." 

"The  hunt  is  much  later — a  few  days  before  we  leave 
for  Morgania,"  observed  Will. 

"The  good  duke!"  said  Ethel;  "it  seems  things 
are  not  going  at  all  well  in  his  country.  Who  knows? 
By  the  time  we  get  to  Morgania  there  may  be  neither 
duke  nor  duchy ! ' ' 

"I  'd  rather  be  a  trapper  in  the  far  West  than  a  duke 
in  such  a  country, ' '  said  grandma. 

"As  for  me,"  said  Phil,  stopping  short  the  "Arkansaw 
Traveler,"  which  he  had  been  strumming  lightly,  "my 
picture  is  already  there  and  I  must  put  it  up  and  retouch 
it  on  the  spot.  I  shall  go,  whatever  happens." 

' '  Bravo ! ' '  Ethel  answered.  ' '  '  Whatever  happens ' ! 
That  's  talking!  One  ought  to  know  what  one  has 
to  do,  and  then  do  it,  whatever  happens!  But  that  has 
nothing  to  do  with  our  camp,"  she  went  on,  as  she 
poured  out  a  lemon  squash.  We  must  see  the  Grojeans. 
I  do  hope  dear  Yvonne  will  come  and  sketch  with  me; 
and  we  must  visit  the  country  fair, — they  tell  me  it  is 
very  curious.  And  then  there  will  be  our  excursions,  and 
photographs  for  our  albums;  and  I  must  take  a  good 
deal  of  exercise.  There  are  so  many  things  to  see  that 
we  shall  have  no  time  to  bore  ourselves." 


IN  CAMP  289 

The  next  day  they  completed  the  setting  up  of  the 
camp.  Ethel  christened  it  "Camp  Rosemont,"  looked 
over  it  with  the  eye  of  the  master,  and  arranged 
everything  for  the  meals.  She  had  a  flag-pole  planted 
for  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  The  rumor  ran  through 
the  country  that  circus  people  had  come  and  were  camp- 
ing under  a  tent  in  the  open.  Curious  villagers  came 
and  looked  on  from  a  distance,  stretching  out  their 
necks. 

"Let  the  children  come!"  Ethel  said.  She  stuffed 
them  with  sweetmeats,  spreading  bread  and  butter  with 
jelly  for  them  with  her  own  hands.  The  little  girls 
amused  her  most,  with  their  braided  hair  and  simple 
gowns  and  little  wooden  shoes.  She  met  an  inborn  polite- 
ness in  them — the  refinement  of  ancient  days ;  they  curt- 
sied to  her. 

"You  'd  say  they  were  fresh  from  the  company  of 
princesses,"  was  Ethel's  appreciation.  True  enough, 
their  games,  the  volant,  the  graces,  the  dancing  in 
a  round,  and  the  songs,  in  which  they  spoke  of  ladies 
and  princes  and  knights,  all  told  of  the  olden  time  of 
joust  and  tournament. 

"How  nice  you  all  are,"  Ethel  said  to  them.  "Will 
you  come  often  ?  You  are  not  afraid  of  me  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  no,  mademoiselle ! ' ' 

"Bring  your  little  playmates.  I  shall  always  have 
cakes  for  you." 

"Oh,  no,  mademoiselle!" 

' '  What !    You  do  not  wish  to  eat  my  cakes  ? ' ' 

' '  Oh,  not  every  day !  Our  parents  would  scold  us ! 
But  you  can  tell  us  nice  stories,  and  then  you  might  give 


290  FATA  MORGANA 

us  tickets  for  the  circus.  You  must  look  pretty  when 
you  go  riding  horseback. ' ' 

' '  So  you  think  I  'm  a  circus-rider  ? ' ' 

"That  's  what  people  say." 

"Well,  they  are  mistaken.  I  am,— I  am"— Ethel 
did  not  find  it  easy  to  say  just  what  she  was.  She 
could  not  say,  "I  am  a  painter,"  or,  "I  am  a  musician." 
So  she  contented  herself  with  saying,  "I  am  an  Amer- 
ican ! ' ' 

"America — that  is  a  country.  Is  it  farther  than 
Paris?" 

"Oh,  yes!" 

"My  papa  has  a  machine  to  mow  hay  which  comes 
from  Chicago.  Is  that  a  city?  Is  it  as  big  as  the  city 
yonder  ? ' ' 

"It  is  as  big  as  all  that!"  Ethel  said,  opening  her 
arms  to  the  boundless  horizon.  ' '  And  three  times  as  high 
as  the  tallest  tree. ' ' 

"My  papa  has  been  in  Buenos  Aires.  Perhaps  you 
saw  him  there?" 

"Never." 

"You  were  never  bitten  by  serpents?" 

"Never." 

"Does  everybody  in  your  country  sleep  under  tents 
as  you  do?" 

"No;  but  in  big,  big  houses." 

"That  must  be  fine." 

"I  '11  show  you  pictures,  children,  and  tell  you  stories 
of  my  country  and  pretty  stories  of  yours,  too.  Do  you 
love  your  country  very  much?" 

"France?    Oh,  yes!" 


Ethel  and  the  Little  Peasant  Girls 


IN  CAMP  293 

"You  are  right,  darlings,  and  I  love  it  also.  It  is  a 
beautiful  country,  which  we  all  love  in  America.  But 
we  sha'n't  be  friends  any  longer  if  you  won't  eat  my 
cakes." 

' '  Oh,  yes,  mademoiselle ! ' ' 

Ringing  laughter  followed,  and  they  ate  the  cakes,  and 
there  were  games,  and  dances  in  which  there  was  some- 
thing of  the  majestic  minuet  and  something  of  the  light 
gavotte. 

"It  does  me  good  to  see  how  happy  they  are,"  Ethel 
said  to  herself.  "Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  have  all  the 
world  happy  forever ! ' ' 

They  were  to  visit  the  Grojeans  later,  when  everything 
should  be  finished  at  the  camp.  The  countess  had  not 
yet  arrived  at  her  chateau,  and  Ethel  profited  by  this 
to  explore  the  country  round  about.  Phil  and  Will,  and 
even  Caracal,  who  was  living  at  the  hotel,  from  time  to 
time  accompanied  them.  They  made  sketches  and  water- 
colors  and  talked  over  their  impressions.  In  her  walks 
Ethel  wore  a  gray  serge  skirt  adorned  with  large  plaits, 
a  bolero  of  the  same  stuff  edged  with  white,  silk  shirt- 
waist, and  a  white  straw  hat ;  and  with  that  she  went  up 
hill  and  down  dale  with  the  readiness  of  a  college  boy. 

They  saw  France  at  home.  The  endless  parceling  out 
of  properties  and  labor  astonished  them.  Every  one  was 
half  peasant  and  half  workman,  and  had  his  own  house 
and  fields  and  vineyards.  Thanks  to  the  spirit  of  saving, 
want  was  unknown ;  and  the  variety  of  work  made  any- 
thing like  a  dead  season  impossible.  When  the  work- 
shop closed  its  doors,  the  workman  took  up  his  spade  and 
cultivated  his  garden. 


294  FATA  MORGANA 

"I  had  no  idea  of  anything  like  this,"  Will  said,  with 
deep  interest.  What  a  rest  for  him,  who  had  just  left 
Chicago  and  the  business  strife,  to  find  himself  in  the 
open  country,  where  everything  smiled  around  him ! 

Sometimes  they  met  a  wedding-party  on  the  way— the 
bride  in  white,  the  groom  in  black,  the  old  men  in  their 
blouses.  A  fiddler,  the  village  barber,  marched  at  the 
head,  scraping  out  airs  of  the  good  old  time. 

They  talked  with  housewives  who  were  twirling  their 
spindles  on  the  threshold.  They  were  asked  to  enter, 
and  saw  the  great  chimney  with  its  fire-dogs,  on  which  the 
soup  was  heating,  and  the  dresser  with  its  colored  crock- 
ery shining  in  the  shadow.  Chickens  pecked  at  their 
feet.  When  Phil  and  Will  sat  down  at  the  old  oaken 
table  to  taste  the  piquette  (light  wine)  a  familiar  mag- 
pie perched  on  their  shoulders  and  asked  its  share. 

Issuing  forth,  they  met  the  "priest-eater"  of  the  vil- 
lage offering  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  Monsieur  le  Cure.  Boys 
were  coming  back  from  school,  shouting  and  rattling 
military  marches  on  imaginary  drums.  For  the  girls 
were  dancing  and  the  boys  playing  their  soldier-games, 
just  as  in  the  days  of  yore,  when  only  the  brave  deserved 
the  fair. 

On  the  village  signs,  names  and  trades  bore  witness  to 
the  antiquity  of  the  race  and  the  power  of  its  traditions. 

"What  dignity  there  is  in  this  people!"  Ethel  said 
to  Will.  "See  the  old  goodman  there,  with  his  spade 
on  his  shoulder,  how  he  saluted  us  as  he  passed  by.  Our 
people  would  think  it  servility,  but  it  is  far  from  that; 
it  is  like  the  refined  greeting  of  a  marquis  who  does  the 
honors  of  his  land." 


IN  CAMP  295 

Will  thought  long  over  this.  All  these  villages  were 
the  same  now  as  they  had  been  in  other  days.  They  had 
always  been  the  refuge  of  simple  ideas,  and  brave  hearts 
had  been  born  and  had  died  in  them,  content  to  consider 
the  smoke  of  the  horizon  only  from  afar.  These  lowly 
lives  had  passed  between  the  old  church  and  the  little 
cemetery  on  the  hill,  with  its  cypresses  among  the  tombs. 

"Yes,  here  we  breathe  to  the  full  filial  piety  and 
the  reverence  of  forefathers,"  Ethel  said.  "There  is 
something  good  in  all  that,  you  know.  You  are  right, 
M.  Caracal,  to  prepare  a  romance  on  this  country  life. 
It  's  a  beautiful  subject  and  full  of  striking  pictures. 
Look  at  that  village  before  us,  with  its  gardens  cut  by 
a  network  of  hedges  and  walls,  and  at  the  roofs  pressed 
one  against  the  other  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  hori- 
zon, and  the  smoke  mounting  straight  up  to  the  sky. ' ' 

"But  all  that  smells  of  the  stable,"  Caracal  murmured, 
"the  country — pouah!" 

"It  doesn't  smell  so  strong  as  your  Montmartre 
cafes,"  Phil  whispered  in  his  ear. 

For  his  part,  Phil  was  living  strange  days.  The  valley 
and  hill  and  the  woods  he  looked  at  mechanically,  think- 
ing of  Miss  Rowrer  the  while.  The  deep  charm  of  the 
young  woman  possessed  him  more  and  more;  he  no 
longer  tried  to  resist  it.  She  had  taken  possession  of  him 
without  knowing  it.  Her  mind  was  large,  cosmopolitan, 
human.  All  Phil's  happiness  was  now  in  being  at  her 
disposition,  in  living  near  her,  and  seeing  and  hearing 
her.  He  felt  that  he  grew  morally  in  her  presence,  and 
he  was  more  in  love  with  her  soul  than  with  her  beauty. 
When  he  walked  through  the  country  with  her,  he  fan- 


296  FATA  MORGANA 

cied  that  Columbia  herself  was  at  his  side,  explaining 
France  to  him. 

The  feeling  of  his  littleness  in  her  presence  gave  him 
pain.  He  could  not  imagine  himself  letting  her  know 
what  he  felt,  either  by  word  or  gesture— he  would  never 
dare.  She  was  too  immensely  rich.  Ah !  if  he  only  could, 
he  would  give  all  the  riches  of  the  world  that  she  might 
be  poor! 

It  was  especially  when  evening  came,  with  its  melan- 
choly, that  such  thoughts  arose  in  him.  One  night,  after 
dinner,  Phil,  to  please  grandma,  took  his  banjo  and 
played  the  "Arkansaw  Traveler."  The  perfume  of 
roses  filled  the  tent,  which  was  lighted  dimly.  The  raised 
canvas  showed  a  cloudless  sky ;  the  stars  were  rising  and 
the  crystal  notes  of  the  banjo  were  lost  in  the  great 
silence. 

"What  a  beautiful  night!"  said  Ethel,  "and  how 
calm !  It  is  like  the  infinite. ' ' 

"But  what  are  we  in  it  all?"  said  Phil.  "In  a  hun- 
dred years  nothing  of  all  this  will  remain;  a  new  man- 
kind will  take  the  place  of  our  own.  We  count  no  more 
than  the  flower  or  the  drop  of  water." 

"No,"  Miss  Rowrer  answered;  "I  am  more  than  a 
drop  of  water,  and  more  than  a  blade  of  grass.  How, 
Phil,  can  you  speak  that  way?  As  for  me,  there  are 
times  when  I  feel  myself  the  equal  of  the  whole  world. ' ' 

"Miss  Rowrer,"  said  Phil,  "the  whole  world  itself  is 
nothing  to  the  infinite." 

"And  I  say,"  replied  the  young  girl,  "that  the  end 
and  aim  of  this  whole  boundless  universe  is  the  produc- 
tion and  development  of  the  soul,  or,  if  you  prefer  it 


Phil  Listening  to  Ethel 


IN  CAMP  299 

that  way,  of  consciousness  in  man's  perishable  body. 
How  do  you  know  that  Alfred  Russel  Wallace  is  not 
right  when  he  supposes  the  earth  to  be  the  center  of  the 
universe?  The  Bible  always  said  so.  What  if  science 
should  prove  it?" 

"Frankly,  now,"  remarked  Will,  who  was  smoking  a 
bad  cigar  (and  yet  the  brand  bore  his  name — it  was 
enough  to  disgust  one  with  earthly  grandeur)  "frankly 
now,  Ethel,  can  you  suppose  these  little  creatures  that 
we  are —  " 

"But  I  will  not  be  a  little  creature!"  cried  Ethel. 
"The  telescope  seems  to  show  that  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  an  infinity  of  suns.  Limited  as  they  must  be 
in  number,  they  only  form  what  is  called  a  globular  ag- 
glomeration, concentric  with  the  Milky  Way.  I  read 
that  the  other  day.  Our  solar  system  is  in  the  center  of 
this  agglomeration  and  so  in  the  center  of  the  Milky  Way, 
which  we  see  around  us  like  a  circle.  And  beyond,  there 
is,  perhaps,  nothing  at  all.  Our  solar  system  is,  then,  in 
the  center  of  the  material  universe ;  and  this  earth  of  ours 
— that  which  is  nothing  to  the  infinite,  according  to 
Phil— on  the  contrary,  occupies  so  privileged  a  place 
near  its  central  sun  that  here  only,  it  is  probable,  life  can 
have  been  developed  and  man  created,  and  so  the  whole 
universe  must  have  its  fulfilment  in  us !  What  do  you 
think  of  such  a  theory  ?  I  had  rather  believe  that  than  be 
only  a  flower  or  a  drop  of  water,"  Ethel  concluded,  as 
she  arose. 

From  his  corner  in  the  shadow  Phil  saw  her,  in  the  full 
light  of  the  lamp,  standing  out  luminous  against  the  dark 
horizon  as  if  mingled  with  the  stars.  He  admired  her 


300  FATA   MORGANA 

superb  self-confidence — why  should  he  doubt  himself? 
He  vowed  that  before  their  departure  for  Morgania  he 
would  let  Miss  Rowrer  know  his  feelings  for  her.  Per- 
haps she  suspected  them  a  little.  No  matter,  he  would 
tell  her!  As  an  extreme  limit,  so  much  did  he  feel  the 
need  of  binding  himself,  he  fixed  the  time  for  his  decla- 
ration at  the  stag  hunt. 


CHAPTER  III 

GRAND  'MERE  VERSUS  GRANDMA 

I  THOUGHT  the  Grojeans  were  absent— their  house 
has  been  all  the  time  shut  up,"  Caracal  said  to 
Ethel;  ''but  I  caught  sight  of  them  yesterday. 
They  must  be  back. ' ' 

"We  '11  go  to-day  and  invite  them  to  tennis,"  Ethel 
said.  "It  will  give  so  much  pleasure  to  Mademoiselle 
Yvonne — and  perhaps  Will  might  be  glad  to  see  her 
again,"  Ethel  added  to  herself. 

In  the  afternoon  the  auto,  in  all  its  splendor,  flew 
along  the  way  to  the  home  of  the  Grojeans. 

Caracal  was  delighted.  Miss  Rowrer  had  been  very 
gracious  to  him.  He  would  have  gone  oftener  to  Camp 
Rosemont,  but  he  had  been  content  to  shine  from  afar 
on  account  of  the  drafts  and  mosquitos  under  the  ac- 
cursed tents.  He  kept  to  his  lodgings  at  the  Lion  d'Or, 
a  little  inn  full  of  flies  and  smelling  of  cabbage-soup. 

"What  a  beautiful  road  this  is!"  Ethel  observed. 
"You  would  say  it  was  an  avenue  in  a  park,  every- 
thing has  such  a  refined  air,  so  prinked  and  pretty, 
with  its  flowers  set  here  and  there ! ' ' 

Every  one  was  impressed  by  the  gardens  of  flowers 
and  the  finished,  distinguished  look  of  everything.  Will 
301 


302  FATA  MORGANA 

had  the  deepest  enjoyment  of  it.  His  head  may  have 
been  full  of  business,  he  may  have  handled  his  millions 
in  his  sleep,  but  he  felt  himself  taken  by  this  provincial 
charm.  His  love  for  it  was  the  love  of  that  which  con- 
trasts with  one's  self.  When  he  saw  the  hills  crowned 
with  oak  and  the  inclosures  bordered  with  roses,  the 
variegated  fields  alive  with  vine  and  corn,  a  sweet 
country  and  a  strong  one,  whose  people  greeted  him 
with  smiles,  he  seemed  to  forget  all  care,  to  be  reading 
a  poem. 

"Will,"  Ethel  remarked,  "is  in  love  with  France." 

Caracal  kept  his  impressions  to  himself.  A  loftier 
anxiety  was  weighing  on  him:  "The  House  of  Glass"  was 
about  to  appear.  It  was  a  thunderbolt  which  would  soon 
burst  and  he  would  be  famous ;  and,  after  the  town,  the 
country  should  have  its  turn !  His  work  should  be  the 
life-encyclopedia  of  our  day.  He  already  had  notes  on 
the  mosquitos,  remarks  on  the  grunting  of  pigs  in  their 
sties  and  the  smells  of  the  manure-heap.  His  novel  would 
begin  well. 

"Tell  me,  M.  Caracal,"  Ethel  chanced  to  ask  just 
as  he  was  thinking  of  all  this,  "have  you  found  a 
title  for  your  novel  on  country  life  which  we  were  talk- 
ing about  the  other  day  ? ' ' 

"I  am  hunting  for  one,  Miss  Rowrer,"  answered  Ca- 
racal. 

"I  hope  every  one  will  be  allowed  to  read  it,  even 
young  girls, ' '  she  went  on. 

"Ah — "  Caracal  interrupted. 

"Good!"  Ethel  said,  "why  should  unpleasant  things 
be  written?  Very  dirty  things  some  authors  write,  so 


GRAND'MERE  VERSUS  GRANDMA  303 

I  hear  it  said.  I  don't  understand  this  fouling  of  one's 
own  nest. ' ' 

Caracal  hid  his  chagrin.  To  him  a  novel  for  the 
"young  person" — a  "proper"  novel — was  the  lowest 
term  of  contempt.  No,  his  would  not  be  a  rose-colored  ro- 
mance ;  it  would  be  something  that  had  been  lived,  thrill- 
ing with  human  passion,  bleeding  and  fierce,  even  if  it 
smelled  of  the  stable  and  dung-hill— ah!— and  he  turned 
his  Mephistophelian  eye-glass  toward  the  horizon. 

A  writer  for  young  persons !  The  indignation  which 
dictated  his  verses  to  Juvenal  made  Caracal  find  a  title 
for  his  romance.  "Let  's  see,"  he  thought.  "In  fact, 
what  title  shall  I  give  it?  It  must  be  something  sugges- 
tive. For  the  city  I  have  'The  House  of  Glass';  would 
'  The  Pigsty '  do  for  the  country  ?  No,  they  'd  say  it  was 
a  treatise  on  breeding.  'The  Rose  on  the  Dung-Hill'? 
No,  they  'd  say  it  was  poetry.  'Dung-Hill'  alone  is  too 
short.  'Worms  from  the  Dung-Hill'— that's  the  thing! 
comparing  the  country  to  a  vast  manure-heap  with 
worms  crawling  through  it." 

Secretly  satisfied  with  this  stroke  of  his  genius,  Caracal 
rubbed  his  hands. 

As  they  drew  near  the  town,  the  houses,  scattered  at 
first  and  amid  gardens,  became  more  numerous.  The 
camping-party  now  jolted  over  the  "King's  Pavement." 
At  a  distance,  above  the  low  roofs,  the  spires  of  a  church 
were  seen.  All  at  once  they  came  out  in  the  place  where 
a  few  days  before,  through  the  blinds,  when  the  sun- foun- 
tain marked  four  o'clock,  the  Grojeans  had  watched 
their  passing  by. 

"The   Grojean   house?"     A   person   standing   near 


304  FATA  MORGANA 

answered  their  inquiry:  "It  is  the  great  doorway  beyond 
there  opening  on  the  place." 

Brrr !  and  the  auto  was  in  front  of  the  house. 

There  was  a  great  door,  studded  with  big  iron  nails, 
and  a  little  wicket,  with  a  grating  in  front  of  it,  opening 
in  the  thickness  of  the  wood.  The  front  of  the  house, 
smooth  and  with  drawn  blinds,  had  a  venerable  look. 
The  stroke  of  the  knocker  resounded  long,  as  if  re- 
echoing through  an  empty  house.  A  moment  passed. 

They  had  time  to  notice  the  fine  grass  which  grew  be- 
tween the  stones  of  the  walk  and  the  foot  of  the  wall,  and 
the  old  escutcheon  carved  above  the  door. 

"It  is  the  Grojeans'  coat  of  arms,"  Ethel  explained 
in  a  low  voice.  "They  belonged  to  the  old  noblesse 
de  robe.  One  grandfather  was  a  presiding  judge,  an- 
other was  a  chancellor." 

Just  then  the  noise  of  the  bolt  was  heard,  the  heavy 
door  opened,  and  Mile,  de  Grojean  welcomed  them  on  the 
threshold. 

"I  am  delighted!  What  a  pleasant  surprise!  You 
must  excuse  me  for  receiving  you  as  I  am.  The  servants 
have  gone  out  and  I  was  at  work. ' ' 

"But  you  are  charming  as  you  are!"  answered  Ethel. 

Mile.  Yvonne  was  certainly  very  pretty  in  her  bib  and 
apron,  with  her  graceful  neck  issuing  from  the  wide 
white  collar,  and  her  refined  head,  with  its  hair  rolled 
like  a  helmet  above  it. 

"Do  come  in!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  hallway,  paved  with  marble,  and  with  its  lofty 
ceiling,  surprised  them  by  its  coolness.  To  right  and  left 
there  were  double  doors.  At  one  side  rose  a  great  stone 


GRAND'MERE  VERSUS  GRANDMA  305 

staircase  with  an  iron  railing  and  without  carpet.  On  the 
wall  there  were  a  few  old  pictures,  and  these,  with  two 
benches  of  the  time  of  Charles  X,  formed  the  furniture  of 
the  hall.  At -the  foot,  through  a  glass  door,  there  was  a 
view  on  a  terrace  leading  down  to  the  garden. 

"  Grand  'mere,  here  are  my  Paris  friends,"  Mile. 
Yvonne  said,  as  she  brought  the  party  into  the  salon: 
"Mme.  Rowrer,  Miss  Rowrer,  Monsieur  William,  Mon- 
sieur Phil  Longwill." 

Caracal  kept  himself  to  one  side,  smiling  as  if  it  were 
understood  that  he,  a  celebrated  man,  was  superior  to 
these  poor  children  of  the  soil. 

"M.  Caracal,  of  Paris,"  Miss  Rowrer  said,  presenting 
him.  "M.  Caracal  has  come  to  study  the  country.  He 
is  preparing  a  book. ' ' 

"Ah!  Monsieur  is  a  professor  of  agriculture.  You 
are  welcome,  monsieur,"  grand 'mere  said,  with  simplic- 
ity, leaving  Caracal  to  that  isolation  which  is  the  lot  of 
psychologues  once  they  leave  the  Boulevard. 

"I  shall  surely  put  you  into  my  novel !"  Caracal  mut- 
tered to  himself,  in  his  vexation. 

"If  I  had  known,  I  would  have  taken  the  covers  from 
the  chairs,"  said  Mile.  Yvonne.  "But  sit  down  all  the 
same,  I  beg  of  you.  Mama  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you. 
She  is  coming  back.  I  will  go  fetch  her." 

"Don't  mind,  Yvonne,"  said  Ethel;  "we  will  wait. 
You  know,"  she  added,  "everything  is  delightful  to  us 
here." 

There  was  the  same  dim  light  on  the  silken  hangings 
and  the  furniture,  reflecting  its  brasses.  The  air  was 
fine  and  sweet,  like  the  fragrance  of  the  caskets  of  our 


306  FATA  MORGANA 

grandmothers  in  family  store-rooms.  Through  the  win- 
dows, half  open  on  the  garden,  they  could  hear  the  song 
of  birds  amid  the  groves. 

Mme.  de  Grojean  now  came  in.  The  chairs  were 
moved  from  their  formal  rows  and  every  one  sat  down. 
Conversation  began. 

The  perfectly  natural  manners  and  air  of  high  distinc- 
tion of  Mile.  Yvonne  and  Mme.  de  Grojean,  found  in  the 
midst  of  their  domestic  occupations,  were  a  pleasure  to 
Will. 

' '  You  were  working  at  this  water-color  ? ' '  Ethel  asked 
of  Mile.  Yvonne. 

"No.  I  'm  going  to  send  that  to  a  charity  bazaar;  but 
I  was  working  at  this." 

'•This  muslin  gown?" 

"Not  just  now,"  said  Yvonne,  "I  was  scraping 
lint." 

"Lint!    For  what?" 

"Why,  for  some  expedition  they  are  preparing;  for 
the  next  war." 

Will  and  Ethel  were  in  admiration  at  such  simplicity 
of  life,  in  which  young  girls  sewed  at  their  own  muslin 
gowns  for  the  yearly  ball,  and  varied  their  employment 
by  picking  lint  for  the  next  war. 

"Just  imagine!"  Ethel  said  to  herself.  "I  pitied 
her  in  Paris  because  she  never  went  anywhere!  Quite 
the  contrary,  she  must  have  been  having  a  thoroughly 
good  time.  Those  days  must  have  been  regular  es- 
capades, an  excess  of  liberty,  compared  to  this  life  of 
work  and  obscure  duties." 

She  looked  in  turn  at  Yvonne,  in  her  high  spirits,  at 


GRAND'MERE  VERSUS  GRANDMA  307 

her  mother,  who  was  so  self-effacing,  and  at  the  rigid, 
conservative,  severe  grandmother. 

"Have  you  many  amusements  here?"  Ethel  asked. 
' '  A  theater,  books,  fine  walks  ? ' ' 

"Oh !"  answered  Yvonne,  "we  hardly  go  to  the  theater 
—once  or  twice  a  year,  perhaps— and  we  receive  few 
books,  we  have  so  little  time  to  read.  But  amusements 
are  not  wanting,  I  assure  you.  Sometimes  I  go  to  market, 
and  there  's  the  care  of  the  house,  with  preserves  to 
make;  there  are  the  garden  and  the  fruits.  We  must 
have  an  eye  to  everything." 

"Yvonne  is  very  whimsical,  too,"  said  grand 'mere; 
"she  wanted  some  canary  birds !  Nowadays,  young  girls 
have  nothing  but  pleasure  in  their  heads!" 

"But  birds  are  so  amusing,"  replied  Yvonne.  "Just 
now,"  she  added,  "we  are  in  a  hurry  with  our  gift  to 
the  soldiers— there  are  lint,  preserves  and  tobacco  and 
liqueurs,  and  linen  to  send  them.  We  have  a  committee 
here,  and  we  occupy  ourselves  with  it  at  our  monthly 
meetings.  And  when  it  is  n't  that,  it  's  something  else. 
My  cousin  Henri  accompanies  me  at  the  piano,  or  I  read 
French  history  or  some  treatise  on  education.  I  have  n't 
a  minute  to  myself,  especially  here,  because  grand 'mere 
is  the  president  of  the  committee." 

"Alas!  what  a  different  idea  of  the  Frenchwoman 
psychological  novelists  have  been  giving!"  was  Phil's 
thought  as  he  looked  at  Caracal,  with  his  monocle  glisten- 
ing in  the  shadow. 

"In  your  place,  madame,"  said  grandma,  speaking 
directly  to  grand 'm&re,  "I  'd  start  a  committee  for  gen- 
eral disarmament. ' ' 

16 


308  FATA   MORGANA 

Mme.  de  Grojean  opened  her  eyes  wide.  Ethel,  who 
saw  the  effect  which  had  been  produced,  hastened  to 
say,  "Grandma  is  joking." 

"Not  at  all,  Ethel,"  replied  grandma.  "The  country 
is  very  pretty,  with  its  flowers  and  its  soldiers;  but  I 
prefer  our  Western  plains,  and  I  'd  give  all  the  military 
music  in  the  world  for  our  peaceful  tunes." 

Grand 'mere  and  grandma  were  face  to  face;  they 
formed  a  perfect  contrast  to  each  other. 

Grandma  seemed  to  have  in  her  clear  eyes  the  sheen 
of  the  sea  and  of  the  prairies,  where  new  dawns  had 
arisen  for  her.  Incredible  energy  could  be  read  on  her 
nervous  features.  One  would  have  said  that  she  was 
still  young  and  active,  and  full  of  ambition ;  and,  if  she 
was  able  to  talk  with  grand 'mere,  it  was  because  during 
the  past  months  she  had  begun  again  to  speak  and  read 
French  with  as  much  ardor  as  a  school-girl.  She  did 
not  feel  herself  growing  old  so  long  as  she  improved  her- 
self. She  detested  things  which  never  changed,  homes 
too  shut  in,  too  hushed  a  silence,  and  too  passive  obe- 
dience. Leaning  forward,  she  looked  into  the  eyes  of 
grand 'mere.  The  latter  was  the  majestic  representative 
of  changeless  things,  of  tradition  that  must  not  be 
touched.  Of  what  use  is  it  to  learn  so  much,  since  all 
sin  comes  from  knowledge?  And  why  change,  since  all 
through  the  centuries  men  have  gone  to  war,  while  women 
stayed  at  home  and  spun. 

Seated  squarely  back  in  her  arm-chair,  she  looked  like 
a  tower  of  the  Middle  Ages,  ready  for  the  assault.  She 
prepared  her  batteries  and  took  from  her  arsenal  replies 
a  thousand  years  old,  with  which  to  overwhelm  the  as- 


GRAND'MERE  VERSUS  GRANDMA  309 

sail  ant.  To  grandma  asking,  "Why  not  change?" 
grand 'mere  would  answer,  "What  use  to  change?" 

She  had  the  proverbs  of  her  ancestors  all  in  line. 
Against  the  taste  for  travel  she  could  throw  this  bomb : 
' '  Each  in  his  place ! ' '  She  would  stifle  the  spirit  of 
adventure  with  "A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss!" 
Against  the  pursuit  of  progress  her  ammunition  was 
ready :  ' '  The  better  is  the  enemy  of  the  good. ' '  And  the 
daring  ones  who  would  attempt  to  climb  up,  in  the  name 
of  modern  ambition  and  equality  for  all,  would  receive 
from  her  mitrailleuse:  "There  was  a  frog  who  tried  to 
become  as  big  as  an  ox,  and  who  burst  in  the  endeavor ! ' ' 

Last  of  all,  if  the  enemy  should  really  force  a  way 
into  the  stronghold,  she  had  the  crushing  reply:  "Ca  ne 
se  fait  pas  [It  isn't  done]  !" 

But  grandma  was  not  to  be  intimidated,  and  her  best 
argument  was  Ethel  herself. 

"In  America,"  said  grandma,  "we  haven't  the  same 
idea  of  education.  It  's  the  young  girl 's  Paradise ! ' ' 

"But  I  am  very  happy  here,"  Yvonne  said,  smiling. 

"Ignorance  is  bliss,"  grandma  thought  to  herself. 

"With  us,"  Ethel  said  aloud,  "a  young  girl  like 
Yvonne,  who  has  a  taste  for  painting,  would  go  to  Paris 
to  study." 

"Ah!  Seigneur!  how  could  you  imagine  my  going  to 
live  in  Paris  at  my  age ! ' '  exclaimed  Yvonne 's  mother. 

' '  But  you  would  remain  here, ' '  grandma  said.  ' '  Your 
daughter  would  go  alone." 

"Est-il  possible!"  grand 'm^re  exclaimed. 

"It  is  so  pleasant,"  grandma  went  on,  "to  have  the 
whole  world  before  you;  it  is  so  exciting  to  be  in  the 


310  FATA  MORGANA 

strife  and  to  feel  one's  self  alive  at  twenty.  It  is  done 
every  day  with  us  and  we  are  none  the  worse  for  it.  On 
the  contrary — ' ' 

"That  I  can  see,"  grand 'mere  admitted,  looking  at 
Ethel.  Grand 'mere  found  her  charming,  and  could  not 
understand  how  a  young  girl  brought  up  with  such  lib- 
erty should  be  so  nice. 

Grandma  continued:  "The  will  ought  to  develop  itself 
freely,  just  like  the  body.  Women  must  know  how  to  de- 
liberate, to  be  fit  companions  for  strong  men;  and  a 
young  girl  ought  to  have  some  experience  of  life  to  make 
her  way  later  and  to  choose  her  husband. ' ' 

' '  To  choose  a  husband ! ' '  grand  'mere  cried ;  ' '  but  I 
suppose  that  is  the  parents'  concern?" 

"Well,  I  declare!"  was  the  answer  of  grandma,  who 
did  not  declare  often. 

Yvonne  was  beginning  to  ask  herself  whether,  since 
they  were  talking  of  husbands,  they  would  not,  quite  by 
chance,  send  her  to  look  for  something  which  had  been 
forgotten  on  the  garden  bench. 

Ethel,  to  get  away  from  the  subject,  spoke  up :  "Mme. 
de  Grojean,  I  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  of  you. ' ' 

"I  grant  it  in  advance,"  said  Mme.  Grojean. 

"It  is  this,"  said  Ethel.  "We  are  camping  in  the 
grounds  of  the  Comtesse  de  Donjeon.  Oh !  the  establish- 
ment is  quite  simple,  and  more  agreeable  than  a  hotel,  I 
assure  you.  We  go  fishing  and  walking  and  painting; 
we  play  the  banjo.  It  is  so  pleasant  to  live  in  the  open 
air,  and  I  would  be  so  glad  if  Yvonne  could  come  with 
us.  We  should  amuse  ourselves  so  much." 

' '  And  it  would  be  so  good  to  have  these  young  people 


"  They  went  down  into  the  garden ; 


GRAND'MERE  VERSUS  GRANDMA  313 

around  me,"  grandma  added.  "I  love  life  and  move- 
ment." 

"We  shall  go  about  the  country  in  our  auto,"  Ethel 
continued.  "We  shall  get  up  picnics,  we  shall  have 
impromptu  plays,  with  lanterns,  when  we  have  guests  of 
an  evening;  and  I  count  on  Yvonne,  Mme.  de  Grojean. 
It  is  granted  in  advance ! ' ' 

"I  should  like  it,  if  mama  pleases,"  ventured  Yvonne, 
with  a  blush  of  pleasure. 

' '  It  is  for  grand  'mere  to  decide,  my  dear  Yvonne.  Ask 
grand 'mere.  I  am  willing,  if  she  is." 

The  judge  was  about  to  pronounce.  She  meditated 
a  moment.  Mme.  Rowrer  and  Miss  Ethel  were  very  kind, 
it  was  true.  But  would  they  always  be  present  to  look 
after  Yvonne  ?  Might  not  Yvonne  sometimes  go  out  alone 
with  Monsieur  William  or  Monsieur  Phil  ?  Her  grand- 
daughter walking  with  men !  She  hesitated  no  longer. 

' '  It  is  impossible, ' '  she  said.  *  *  I  thank  you  very  much, 
Mile.  Rowrer,  but  it  is  impossible." 

The  judge  had  pronounced,  without  appeal ! 

"Ah!"  thought  Ethel,  "I  understand  how  a  young 
girl  in  France  should  take  the  husband  they  choose  for 
her  with  eyes  shut.  It  is  to  her  own  interest  to  escape 
from  such  family  tyranny. ' ' 

"But  we  shall  go  to  see  Miss  Ethel?"  Yvonne  asked. 

"Oh,  certainly!  We  shall  go  to  pass  an  afternoon 
with  you,"  Mme.  de  Grojean  said,  encouraged  by  an  in- 
dulgent smile  from  grand 'mere,  who,  seated  squarely  in 
her  arm-chair,  murmured  between  her  lips: 

"Ah!  how  insatiable  for  pleasure  young  people  are 
nowadays !  As  if  birds  and  flowers  in  the  garden  were 


314  FATA  MORGANA 

not  enough !  Soon  we  shall  have  girls  playing  like  boys ; 
they  will  talk  of  the  theater  and  sport,  of  tennis  and  bi- 
cycles—horror !" 

Yvonne,  gay  as  usual,  and  without  any  expression  of 
bitterness,  spoke  low  with  her  grandmother. 

"Grand 'mere,  what  if  I  should  prepare  a  light  colla- 
tion for  our  visitors?" 

"You  are  right,  my  child,"  said  grand 'mere;  "here  is 
the  key  of  the  preserve  pantry. ' ' 

Every  one  was  now  talking.  A  visitor  had  just  made 
her  appearance— Mme.  Kicois,  the  banker's  wife,  alert 
and  dimpling,  as  usual.  Phil,  Will,  and  Mme.  de  Grojean 
talked  pleasantly  together.  Caracal,  with  an  air  of 
great  importance,  talked  of  bric-a-brac  to  Mme.  Ricois. 
Grand 'mere  and  grandma  made  peace  together.  They 
found  an  admirable  common  ground  of  interest.  Grand  '- 
mere  showed  grandma,  who  looked  at  them  like  a  connois- 
seur, the  photographs  of  her  grandchildren,  boys  and 
girls,  and  grand-nephews  and  -nieces.  Grandma  gave 
grand 'mere  a  recipe  for  home-made  pie. 

"The  collation  is  ready,"  Yvonne  said,  as  she  opened 
from  without  one  of  the  long  windows  on  the  terrace. 
Her  joyful  voice  sounded  through  the  salon  as  the  floods 
of  light  came  in  with  the  perfume  of  mignonette  and 


"  Grand 'mere, "  Yvonne  went  on,  "I  have  spread  the 
collation  under  the  arbor  by  the  waterside.  Is  that 
right?" 

"You  have  done  well,  my  child,"  said  grand 'mere. 

Mile.  Yvonne  smiled  with  pride,  like  a  soldier  receiving 
his  general 's  compliment.  Without  any  more  ado,  they 


GRAND'MERE  VERSUS  GRANDMA  315 

all  crossed  the  terrace  and  went  down  into  the  garden. 
It  stretched  out  with  straight  alleys  bordered  by  cut  box ; 
and  at  each  side  thick  trees  isolated  it  from  the  rest  of 
the  world.  In  the  center  there  was  a  little  basin  of  rock- 
work.  At  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  along  the  riverside, 
a  trellis- work  formed  a  shady  arbor — a  nook  of  dainty 
freshness.  As  they  went  down  to  it  Yvonne  threw 
bread-crumbs  to  the  goldfish  in  the  basin,  and  then 
showed  her  flower-borders,  in  which  the  blue  and  white 
and  red  blossoms  were  like  a  tricolor  flag. 

"I  water  them  myself,"  said  Yvonne. 

The  table  was  spread  under  a  trellis  covered  with 
honeysuckle.  There  were  biscuits  and  preserves,  fruits, 
cool  water,  liqueurs  and  wine  and  beer — all  set  out  in 
perfect  taste. 

Yvonne  served  every  one. 

"Did  you  prepare  all  this  yourself?"  Ethel  asked,  in 
wonder.  "And  you  also  found  time  to  adorn  the  table 
with  flowers— you  are  a  real  fairy!" 

A  balustrade,  over  which  ivy  was  growing,  separated 
them  from  the  river.  On  the  other  side  of  the  water 
there  spread  out  a  vast  plain,  in  which  factory-chimneys 
were  smoking. 

"Only  look  at  the  contrast!"  Ethel  said,  pointing  to 
the  plain  across  the  river.  "You  would  say  it  was 
America ;  while  here,  in  this  old  garden,  surrounded  by 
walls,  with  Yvonne  beside  her  flower-beds  and  all  these 
savory  fruits  and  beautiful  golden  grapes  on  their  pal- 
ings, I  seem  to  be  looking  at  old  France!" 

"Here  's  to  France!"  Will  said,  lifting  his  glass,  full 
of  clear  water. 


316  FATA  MORGANA 

''To  America!"  Yvonne  replied,  pouring  out  for  her- 
self a  little  white  wine. 

' '  To  our  alliance ! ' '  said  the  alert  and  dimpling  Mme. 
Rigois,  as  she  tossed  down  her  glass  of  champagne,  while 
the  rest  of  the  party,  including  grandma  and  grand '- 
mere,  gaily  attacked  the  cakes  and  fruits. 

"It's  understood,  then,  isn't  it,  madame?"  Ethel 
said  to  grand 'mere,  "we  can  count  on  Yvonne  for  an 
afternoon,  and,  if  you  are  willing,  we  shall  go  together 
to  see  the  fair." 

"It  is  understood,"  answered  grand 'mere;  "and  we 
will  go  into  the  booths  and  the  circus,  too— and  you  must 
come  also,  Mme.  Ricois.  It  will  be  a  fete-day  for  us ! " 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Mme.  Ricois,  filling  her  glass 
again  in  honor  of  the  alliance. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THROUGH    THE    COUNTRY   FAIR 

THE  camping-party  and  the  Grojeans  were  doing 
the  fair.  At  the  foot  of  the  platform,  before  the 
circus  door,  an  open-mouthed  circle  listened  to 
the  girl-clown  dressed  as  Pierrette.  All  around,  under  the 
burning  sun,  tents  had  been  set  up,  painted  in  bright 
colors.  Groaning  trombones  proclaimed  the  wrestlers 
and  the  bearded  woman.  Other  mountebanks  farther  on 
attracted  the  public  toward  their  own  side-shows.  To 
the  notes  of  an  orchestrion,  wooden  horses  turned  rigidly 
against  a  cotton-print  background,  spangled  with  mir- 
rors. Cries  and  laughter  were  heard  above  all  the  rum- 
bling of  the  drums.  Far  and  wide  rose  the  discordant 
noise,  especially  that  of  the  market  for  domestic  ani- 
mals, where  the  high  "do"  of  squealing  pigs  quite  mas- 
tered the  muffled  bass  of  the  oxen. 

Everywhere  there  was  something  to  see.  But  the 
Pierrette  was  so  pretty  that  the  public  disdained  the 
rest  and  thronged  around  her,  fascinated  by  her  air  of 
good-fellowship,  and  her  young,  fresh  laughter. 

"Now  's  the  time!  Now  's  the  time!"  the  Pierrette 
cried,  while,  behind  her  on  the  platform,  circus-riders 
and  clowns,  and  the  master  in  person,  Signor  Perbaccho, 
317 


318  FATA  MORGANA 

listened  gravely  to  her.  ' '  Come  in !  Come  in !  Let  us 
show  you  an  animal  that  has  been  well  trained— but 
not  without  difficulty,  for  he  is  stupid  enough  to  make 
soup  of  smoked  beetles! 

11  Oh,  you  need  n't  think  it  just  happened!"  the  Pier- 
rette ran  on,  making  gestures  with  her  stick.  "To  begin 
with,  such  animals  exist  only  in  Paris — Paris  on  the 
Seine,  you  understand ;  a  big  village  where  all  the  peb- 
bles are  diamonds  and  the  trees  are  gold,  but  you  don't 
dig  potatoes  there!  To  live  there  your  loafers  have 
to  become  sculptors  and  painters  and  musicians.  Their 
heads  are  as  empty  as  their  stomachs!  Mesdames  et 
messieurs,  I  am  going  to  show  you  one  of  those  ani- 
mals. Don't  throw  him  anything,  I  beseech  you — no 
bread-crusts,  no  cabbage-leaves;  he  ate  yesterday!  At- 
tention! Here  he  comes!  Come  hither,  my  fly-killer! 
Come  when  you  are  called." 

There  were  bursts  of  laughter  as  the  Pierrette 
stretched  out  her  arm  and  seized  a  man  by  the  ear, 
whirling  him  around  and  bringing  him,  ashamed  enough, 
to  face  the  public.  She  might  have  been  a  marquise 
disguised  as  a  soubrette,  playing  in  comedy  with  a 
clumsy  rustic.  The  man  turned  red  as  a  tomato. 

"Have  you  made  your  bread-winner  shine  to-day? 
Did  you  scrub  it  with  pumice  powder  ?  Answer ! ' '  said 
the  Pierrette. 

' '  Yes ! ' '  grunted  the  man,  shaking  his  head  like  a  bear. 

"Let  'ssee!" 

The  man  took  off  his  hat,  showing  a  skull  of  dazzling 
whiteness,  shining  above  his  hairy  brown  face  like  a 
piece  of  crockery  on  a  cocoanut. 


Suzanne  and  Poufaille  at  the  Co 


THROUGH  THE   COUNTRY  FAIR  321 

"Bow  to  the  honorable  company!"  said  the  Pierrette. 
' '  Not  so  low !  if  they  see  your  skull  that  way,  they  '11 
think  your  breeches  are  torn  at  the  knee.  Now,  stand 
up !  To  work,  old  fly-killer ! 

"Mesdames  et  messieurs,"  the  Pierrette  said,  pretend- 
ing to  roll  up  her  sleeves  and  get  her  stick  ready,  "it  's 
not  so  easy  as  that  to  kill  flies— unless  your  breath  has 
alcohol  enough  in  it  to  make  them  fall  in  a  fit!  As  for 
me,  I  have  discovered  the  means,  without  drinking,  to 
rid  myself  of  the  treacherous  gluttonous  flies !  Do  you 
want  my  recipe?  Here  it  is.  You  take  a  bald-headed 
man,  very  delicately — there!  like  that! — you  spread 
on  a  layer  of  molasses  and  bird-lime,  and  then  flies 
and  wasps,  mosquitos  and  gnats,  every  insect  with  a 
sucker,  will  light  down  on  the  human  fly-trap ;  and  then, 
— then,  mesdames, — I  address  my  words  to  you! — you 
take  a  broomstick  and  hit  hard  where  the  molasses  is 
thickest!  There!  like  that!  Aie  done!  vlan!  pan!  till 
the  flies  are  a  jelly — pan!  pan! — hit  him  again!  that  's 
the  way  to  kill  flies  and  treat  men  as  they  deserve— with 
a  broomstick— et  die  done!" 

"What!  Suzanne  and  Poufaille!"  exclaimed  Phil, 
getting  nearer  the  platform.  The  camping-party,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Grojeans,  joined  him  just  as  Poufaille, 
covered  with  molasses  and  shame,  escaped  from  his  exe- 
cutioner and  dived  back  behind  the  canvas.  Suzanne, 
full  of  excitement  from  her  bastinade,  stamped  her  feet, 
and  with  voice  and  gesture  invited  the  public  to  come  up 
and  buy  their  places.  High  above  the  noise  of  the  band 
her  piercing  voice  called  out  the  program: 

"Riding  of  the  haute  ecole  by  the  celebrated  Per- 


322  FATA  MORGANA 

baccho !  The  dance  of  the  sylphs  by  Mademoiselle  Su- 
zanne, pupil  of  the  famous  Helia !  Hercules  O  'Pouf aille, 
of  the  family  of  0  'Poufailles !  Come  in !  Come  in ! " 

Phil  was  greatly  astonished.  He  had  not  seen  Pou- 
faille  since  the  evening  when  the  latter,  with  his 
eyes  starting  from  his  head,  had  cast  at  him  the  ter- 
rible accusation— "You  have  stolen  from  me  my  share 
of  glory!" 

"So  he  's  made  himself  a  Hercules  of  the  fair," 
thought  Phil,  ' '  and  he  's  made  his  name  Irish !  What  a 
fall  for  an  autochtone!" 

"Phil,"  asked  Ethel,  who  had  stopped  in  front  of 
the  Pierrette,  "would  n't  you  say  it  was  Suzanne? 
And  here  on  the  poster  is  0 'Pouf aille— it  must  be  M. 
Poufaille !  Decidedly,  Tout-Paris  has  given  itself  a  ren- 
dezvous in  the  provinces ! ' ' 

"What — do  you  know  those  people?"  grand 'mere 
asked  of  Ethel.  "I  suppose  you  saw  them  in  some  cir- 
cus!" 

"I  saw  them  in  Paris— at  the  Louvre  and  at  Monsieur 
Phil's  studio.  They  are  good,  brave  hearts.  Suzanne 
has  posed  for  me  and  so  did  the  famous  Helia,  whose 
portrait  Yvonne  did." 

"Impossible!" 

"Why,  yes,  grand 'mere,"  Yvonne  said.  "That  head 
of  a  Madonna — the  miniature  which  you  keep  on  your 
prie-dieu,  don't  you  know?— Mile.  Helia  posed  for  it." 

"A  Madonna  copied  from  devils  like  that?"  gasped 
grand 'mere,  amazed  at  the  Pierrette's  gesticulations  on 
the  platform.  "What!  you  bring  such  people  into  your 
house!  You  are  not  afraid?" 


THROUGH  THE  COUNTRY  FAIR  323 

"I?"  answered  Ethel;  "no  fear  at  all!  I  would  give 
them  the  key  of  my  desk !  Mme.  Grojean,  only  ask  Mon- 
sieur Phil,  who  knows  them  better  than  I.  Every  one 
earns  his  living  as  he  can.  Each  one  has  his  trade — and 
God  for  us  all!" 

"When  you  go  to  see  them— for  I  hope  you  are  going 
to  see  them,"  Ethel  continued,  speaking  to  Phil,  "re- 
member me  to  them,  and  you  will  oblige  me  much!  If 
M.  Poufaille  still  has  a  picture  to  sell,  I  will  buy  it. 
Poor  M.  Poufaille!"  she  added.  "After  all,  he  might 
have*  succeeded,  who  knows  ?  It  is  all  such  a  question 
of  chance ! ' ' 

Phil,  in  his  heart,  did  not  care  much  about  seeing 
Poufaille  again;  what  sort  of  a  welcome  was  there 
in  store  for  him?  But  he  could  not  explain  all  that  to 
Miss  Rowrer;  and,  besides,  her  desires  were  orders  for 
him— and  then,  he  would  come  to  Poufaille  bearing 
the  gifts  of  Artaxerxes ;  that  would  calm  him,  no 
doubt. 

"I  do  not  blush  for  my  friends,  Miss  Rowrer,"  Phil 
said.  "I  will  go  this  instant.  The  good  fellow  will  be 
very  glad  to  have  your  order." 

"We  shall  see  you  later,"  answered  Ethel. 

The  camping-party  continued  its  stroll  through  the 
fair  in  two  distinct  groups.  Behind  were  grandma  and 
grand 'mere,  talking  familiarly  together.  The  piping- 
time  of  peace  had  come  with  currant-syrup  under  the 
arbor  by  the  riverside.  Mme.  Ric.ois,  full  of  smiles,  fat 
and  dimpling,  came  and  went  like  a  diplomatic  valise 
between  the  group  ahead, — Ethel,  Yvonne,  and  Will, — 
and  the  group  behind,  grandma  and  grand  'mere.  These 


324  FATA  MORGANA 

two  elegant  groups  formed  a  phalanx,  bannered  by  para- 
sols, in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  in  blue  blouses. 

They  went  along  the  principal  part  of  the  fair,  a 
sort  of  central  alley,  which  the  circus  blocked  at  one 
end,  whereas,  at  the  other  end,  under  dusty  trees,  the 
show  of  domestic  animals  was  lined  up.  From  all  parts 
arose  a  continuous  confusion  of  sounds,  like  the  murmur 
of  the  sea. 

"What  a  noise!'  grand 'mere  exclaimed.  She  was  ac- 
customed to  her  silent  house,  between  the  deserted  place 
and  the  garden  with  its  clipped  yew-trees.  "But 
there  's  no  harm  in  passing  by  such  a  Jericho  now  and 
then — it  disgusts  you  with  noise  for  a  year  to  come!" 

Just  then  Mme.  Ric,ois  came  up,  breathing  hard. 

"Oh,  no!  It  's  too  funny!  I  never  saw  Yvonne 
amuse  herself  so  much.  Ah !  how  gay  these  young  peo- 
ple are !  Do  you  know  what  M.  Rowrer  has  been  telling 
us?  He  declares  that  the  country,  even  on  a  fair-day 
like  this,  soothes  his  nerves.  Miss  Rowrer  is  of  the  same 
opinion ;  they  are  as  merry  as  children. ' ' 

"Perhaps  they  are  too  merry,"  grand 'mere  thought 
to  herself.  "What  an  idea  of  my  daughter's  to  stay 
at  the  house  for  her  preserves,  and  to  leave  me  alone 
to  look  after  Yvonne.  Really,  she  chose  her  time  well ; 
was  it  so  necessary  for  Yvonne  to  come  here  and  ad- 
mire the  fronts  of  the  booths?  Ah!  nowadays  young 
people  never  have  their  fill  of  pleasure ! ' ' 

To  calm  her  conscience,  grand 'mere  said  to  herself 
that  it  was  all  right  for  once,  but  that  it  should  not 
happen  again.  Mme.  Ri<jois  spoke  the  truth.  They  were 
amusing  themselves  very  much  there  in  front — a  great 


THROUGH  THE  COUNTRY  FAIR  325 

deal  too  much  for  grand  'mere.  Will  was  as  gay  as  a  boy 
let  loose  from  school. 

In  comparison  with  such  a  provincial  fete,  Chicago, 
as  he  remembered  it,  made  on  him  the  effect  of  a  ma- 
chine-shop full  of  the  noise  of  steam-hammers.  Taking 
out  his  watch,  he  thought  how  at  that  very  hour  he 
might  have  been  at  the  Stock  Exchange,  worried  with 
business,  in  the  midst  of  frenzied  outcries  and  distorted 
faces;  whereas,  here  there  were  only  smiles  and  gaiety. 
Every  one  seemed  happy,  even  the  poorest;  and  the 
tumult  was  that  of  good-fellowship.  Joyous  vine- 
dressers were  buying  baskets  for  their  grapes.  Farther 
along,  waffles  were  frying.  Here  they  were  selling  cooked 
sausages;  and  expansive  mouths  were  emptying  their 
glasses  or  biting  into  loaves  of  bread. 

"Here  are  people,"  Will  said,  "who  know  how  to 
amuse  themselves." 

"Is  it  a  secret,  monsieur?"  asked  Yvonne. 

"To  be  content  with  what  one  has,"  answered  Will. 
"You  have  a  French  proverb  about  it:  'S'il  n'y  en  a 
pas,  il  n'en  faut  pas'  ['What  you  can't  have,  you  don't 
need'] — and  that  is  right — don't  you  think  so,  made- 
moiselle?'" 

' '  Oh,  I  don 't  know, ' '  said  Yvonne ;  ' '  you  seem  to 
know  the  French  people  better  than  I." 

The  rare  charm  of  Mile,  de  Grojean,  her  innate  sim- 
plicity and  inherited  refinement,  seemed  to  Will  like  the 
perfect  expression  of  all  he  loved  in  France.  He,  who 
was  so  taciturn,  would  have  talked  on  for  hours  only 
to  see  the  manner,  at  once  coquettish  and  reserved,  with 
which  Yvonne  listened  to  him. 


326  FATA  MORGANA 

''My  impression  of  France  is  this,"  said  Will:  "it 
is  holiday  every  day,  and  the  next  day  you  begin 
again. ' ' 

"You  see  everything  in  rose-color,  M.  Rowrer," 
Yvonne  remarked. 

"No,"  said  Ethel,  who,  in  her  walks  around  the  camp, 
had  often  visited  the  poor— "no,  it  's  not  all  the  time 
holiday  for  everybody." 

"I  know  that,  too,"  Will  replied;  "life  is  as  hard 
here  as  anywhere  else;  but  it  is  the  only  country  where 
you  can  give  yourself  the  illusion  that  it  is  easy." 

They  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  central  alley.  Fol- 
lowed by  grand 'mere  and  grandma,  they  had  passed  by 
the  Pretty  Shepherdess  of  the  Alps — a  woman  of  formi- 
dable proportions  painted  on  canvas,  in  company  with 
three  white  goats,  not  far  from  the  booth  of  the  bearded 
woman.  Just  there  the  group  behind  would  have  lost 
the  forward  group,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Mme.  Ric.ois, 
who  elbowed  her  way  with  energy  through  the  crowd, 
which,  at  this  spot,  pressed  together  like  the  current 
in  a  narrow  strait.  An  immense  lottery-wheel  was  turn- 
ing with  a  noise  like  the  wind. 

The  day  drew  on,  and  the  peasants  were  already  lead- 
ing away  their  cattle.  They  went  along  in  single  file, 
in  front  of  their  yoked  oxen,  slow  as  a  procession.  The 
dust  they  raised  settled  on  the  trees  in  white  powder. 

"You  may  say  what  you  please,  Will,"  Ethel  con- 
tinued; "it  may  be  all  very  peaceable  if  you  compare 
it  with  the  Stock  Exchange,  but  it  's  not  so  compared 
with  Camp  Rosemont." 

"We  shall  go  to  see  you  soon,"  said  Mile.  Yvonne; 


THROUGH  THE  COUNTRY  FAIR  327 

''you  know  that  every  one  is  talking  about  it  in  the 
town.  They  tell  wonders  of  it!" 

"  I  am  sorry  you  cannot  come  to  stay  with  us,  Yvonne. 
I  so  wish  you  had  been  there  the  other  day.  I  got  up  an 
open-air  lunch  for  the  village  children;  and  the  way 
they  played  and  laughed!  We  wound  up  everything 
by  dancing  a  great  round.  Sometimes  autos  come;  and 
you  'd  almost  think  you  were  at  a  gymkhana  of  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  Then  I  Ve  begun  my  water-colors 
again.  If  you  would  come,  Yvonne,  we  'd  make  Suzanne 
pose  in  her  costume  as  a  Pierrette." 

"Ce  didble!  That  's  what  grand 'mere  would  say. 
She  'd  never  be  willing ! ' ' 

"But  we  should  be  with  you,  you  know — no  ugly 
man — 

' '  With  an  exception  for  me,  I  hope  ? ' '  Will  put  in. 

"And  if  Suzanne  or  Helia  should  pose,  after  all,  what 
harm  could  there  be?"  continued  Ethel.  "I  know  very 
well  there  are  prejudices,— and  don't  let  's  be  too  severe 
on  them ;  prejudice  is  the  counterfeit  brother  of  good 
sense ;  hump-backed  and  with  horns,  sometimes  even 
without  pity.  Think  of  Helia,  who  wears  a  more  than 
royal  or  imperial  mantle— beauty !  It  is  impossible 
that  so  much  beauty  should  not  go  along  with  virtue 
also;  and  yet,  no!— un  didble,  Mme.  de  Grojean  would 
say ! ' ' 

"Ah! — in  such  a  profession!"  said  Yvonne. 

"Ah!"  said  Ethel;  "if  Helia  were  an  actress  or  a 
singer,  she  would  wear  crowns  and  recite  high-sounding 
verses;  and  the  poets  would  give  her  prestige  in  real 
life.  But  she  has  neither  diamonds  nor  jewels;  with 


328  FATA  MORGANA 

her  full  complement  of  arms,  she  is  only  a  Venus  de  Milo 
in  a  silk  maillot ! ' ' 

"You  are  jesting,  Ethel,"  said  Will.  "You  are  not 
going  to  compare  gymnastics  with  dramatic  art?" 

"Why  not?  Do  you  know  anything  more  beautiful 
than  a  beautiful  gesture?  What  comedy,  what  drama 
can  moralize  us  more  than  beauty  which  makes  us  blush 
for  our  own  ugliness,  and  for  our  poor  limbs,  like  con- 
sumptive chickens  or  stuffed  turkeys !  It  is  the  train- 
ing-school of  the  will  and  of  energy." 

"If  she  were  beautiful  as  Venus,"  Will  retorted, 
"I'd  never  choose  for  a  wife  an  acrobat,  offering  me 
her  heart  with  a  triple  high  leap. ' ' 

"Of  course,"  said  Ethel,  "and  you  would  be  right; 
each  one  in  his  own  sphere.  That  is  one  of  the  con- 
ditions of  happiness,  and  society  with  us  has  intangible 
laws  which  only  the  unclassed  and  the  blase  venture  to 
break.  We  do  not  live  in  the  East,  where  slaves  be- 
come queens, — not  even  in  Morgania,  a  country  of  icons 
and  superstition;  in  such  countries  anything  is  natural, 
the  only  rule  being  the  good  pleasure  of  the  master. 
After  all,  it  is  one  prejudice  instead  of  another!" 

Phil  now  came  to  find  them.  He  had  recognized  them, 
from  a  distance,  in  the  crowd,  by  the  shimmering  of 
their  parasols.  He  recounted  to  Ethel  his  interview 
with  Poufaille.  He  looked  delighted;  everything  must 
have  passed  off  well. 

"There  are  prejudices  everywhere,"  Ethel  went  on. 
"Yourself,  Yvonne— do  you  never  stand  out  against 
prejudice?  I  will  take  Monsieur  Phil  for  witness." 

"In  what,  please?"  Yvonne  asked. 


THROUGH  THE   COUNTRY  FAIR  329 

''For  one  example,  in  walking  with  us  among  hun- 
dreds of  men,— those  fearful  men  of  whom  you  spoke 
with  such  terror  in  Phil's  studio ;  don't  you  remem- 
ber?" 

' '  Oh, ' '  said  Yvonne,  looking  around  her  indifferently, 
"these  good  country  people  in  their  blue  blouses?  It 
was  not  that  I  meant,  Miss  Ethel." 

"Then  men  in  blue  blouses  are  not  men?"  Ethel  an- 
swered, laughing.  "It  's  like  women  in  maillots, — they 
don't  count!  What  do  you  think,  Phil?" 


CHAPTER  V 

A    BANQUET    ON    THE    SAWDUST 

POUFAILLE  and  Phil  were  now  friends  again— 
really  they  had  been  so  for  some  time,  ever  since 
the  day  when  Phil  had  taken  to  Pouf aille  Ethel 's 
order  for  a  picture.  Poufaille  was  incapable  of  nursing 
wrath,  and  received  Phil  with  open  arms.  The  two  co- 
pains  squeezed  each  other's  hands. 

''Good  old  Phil!"  Poufaille  exclaimed;  and  Phil  an- 
swered: "Good  old  Poufaille!" 

And  they  did  not  speak  once  of  their  old  quarrel  until 
the  day  when  the  artistes  had  their  banquet  in  the  ring  of 
the  circus  itself. 

Phil  had  a  great  deal  of  amusement  that  day.  Su- 
zanne beggared  description,  and  Poufaille  was  a  show 
in  himself,  standing  up,  glass  in  hand,  and  singing  the 
glory  of  the  vintage.  With  a  gesture,  he  snatched  his 
collar  from  his  shirt. 

' '  It  chokes  me !  I  can 't  give  the  trills ! "  he  said,  for 
the  trills  were  the  strong  point  of  this  garlic-eater  and 
roller  of  r's  from  the  South.  So  he  thundered  out  his 
song  in  honor  of  wine  and  vine,  of  vats  and  presses,  and 
of  the  good  hot  blood  of  the  good  old  wine-drinkers. 
Around  the  table  all  the  voices  took  up  the  refrain,  but 
they  could  not  drown  the  terrible  voice  of  Poufaille, 
330 


A  BANQUET  ON  THE   SAWDUST  331 

which  rumbled  and  rolled,  covering  all  the  rest  as  the 
noise  of  thunder  covers  the  twittering  of  sparrows. 

"  Buveurs  de  vin— couchez  dans  la  poussiere 
Ces  buveurs  de  biere !  " 

( "  Wine  drinkers,  throw  down  in  the  dust 
All  drinkers  of  beer ! ") 

Scornful  laughter  shook  his  sides,  and  he  struggled 
to  give  his  good-natured  voice  a  diabolical,  biting  tone, 
as  he  repeated,  looking  at  Phil: 

"  Ces  buveurs  de  biere  ! " 

Poufaille,  excited  by  the  wine,  had  a  look  of  fury. 
But  when  he  had  finished,  his  shaggy  eyebrows  grew 
peaceful,  and  a  smile  spread  all  at  once  over  his  big, 
good-natured  face. 

"You  're  not  angry  at  me,  I  hope?"  he  said  to  Phil, 
patting  him  on  the  shoulder.  "What  I  said  about  beer- 
drinkers  does  not  vex  you—heinf" 

"It  doesn't  touch  me,"  answered  Phil,  "for  I  only 
drink  water ! ' ' 

"True,  so  you  do,  poor  fellow!"  Poufaille  said  in  a 
tone  of  pity.  "Good  old  Phil!" 

"Good  old  Poufaille,"  Phil  replied,  "sing  whatever 
you  wish ;  we  sha'n't  quarrel  for  that !" 

Poufaille  was  reassured,  filled  up  his  glass,  and  emp- 
tied it  at  a  draught. 

"Look  out,"  said  Phil,  "you  '11  drink  too  much." 

"Let  me  be;  I  need  it,"  Poufaille  answered;  and  it 
was  almost  with  a  gesture  of  despair  that  he  filled  his 
glass  again.  Those  around  them,  also,  were  not  drink- 


332  FATA  MORGANA 

ing  water.  Phil  had  done  things  on  a  large  scale.  He 
had  ordered  champagne— as  much  champagne  as  they 
wished.  A  full  glass  was  offered  to  Poufaille,  but  he 
refused  it. 

"Champagne?  Pouah!  That  is  a  wine  for  foreign- 
ers!" he  explained.  "Give  me  good  old  red  wine— and 
let  me  drink  till  my  thirst  is  quenched ! ' ' 

On  the  table — or  rather  on  the  jumping-board  of  the 
circus,  which  stood  on  props  with  its  chalk-powder  giv- 
ing the  illusion  of  a  white  cloth— there  was  a  mass  of 
dishes  and  plates  and  empty  bottles.  It  had  been  spread 
in  the  very  middle  of  the  ring — in  the  good  odor  of  saw- 
dust. Around  the  table,  seated  on  the  chairs  of  equili- 
brists, or  on  the  stools  of  hand-balancers,  were  the  circus 
artistes  and  a  few  invited  guests.  They  had  laughed  a 
great  deal  during  the  banquet,  before  the  time  came  for 
the  songs  and  toasts. 

"We  all  look  as  if  we  had  the  plague!"  Suzanne 
said,  by  way  of  appetizer,  pointing  to  the  color  of  the 
faces  under  the  green  reflected  light  of  the  tent.  There- 
upon Poufaille  grew  livid,  in  his  constant  terror  of  the 
most  imaginary  ailments — stoppage  of  the  blood,  wind, 
stiff  neck,  plague,  and  cholera. 

"Shut  off  the  draughts  of  air!"  he  cried,  "we  '11  all 
get  our  death!" 

He  all  but  fainted  with  fear  as  he  saw,  in  front  of 
him,  his  plate  rising  up  in  the  air  without  his  touch- 
ing it. 

"My  plate!  my  plate  is  going  away!"  he  stammered, 
in  terror. 

' '  Oh !  what  is  the  matter  ? ' '  Suzanne  cried.    ' '  I  can 't 


Banquet  in  tho  Rhifr  of  tlif  f 


A  BANQUET  ON  THE   SAWDUST  335 

understand  it— perhaps  a  snake  has  got  loose  from  the 
menagerie  next  door!" 

"Help!    Help!"  Poufaille  sputtered,  ready  to  faint. 

"What  are  you  afraid  of?"  said  Perbaccho,  the  mas- 
ter of  the  show.  "Don't  you  see  that  it  is  only  Suzanne 
playing  tricks  on  you?" 

"Oh,  it  's  all  right,  then!"  Poufaille  said,  recovering 
his  assurance.  "She  's  been  playing  me  all  sorts  of 
tricks  lately— not  counting  the  strokes  of  the  broom- 
stick!" 

In  fact,  Suzanne  had  brought  out  her  whole  repertory 
of  practical  jokes— liquids  that  flame  up,  powder  which, 
thrown  into  a  ragout,  crawls  about  in  the  shape  of  a 
worm,  pasteboard  mice  that  run  across  the  table,  papier- 
mache  fruits  and  cheeses,  and  paste  sweetmeats.  The 
lunch  was  one  long  burst  of  laughter. 

When  the  dessert  came  Perbaccho,  the  master,  arose, 
glass  in  hand. 

"To  the  health  of  Monsieur  Phil!"  he  said. 

"Here  's  to  his  health!"  repeated  the  guests  around 
the  jumping-board. 

"Vive  Monsieur  Phil !"  said  the  children,  who  were  sit- 
ting farther  on,  at  a  little  table  with  spangled  velvet 
fringe,  on  which,  during  his  performances,  the  juggler 
placed  his  balls  and  knives.  Soeurette  was  there ;  Helia 
had  brought  her,  although  she  was  too  great  an  artiste 
to  show  herself  at  Perbaccho 's  circus.  She  had  come  to 
the  country  to  be  near  Suzanne  and  to  rest. 

' '  Dear  friends, ' '  Perbaccho  went  on,  in  the  same  voice 
with  which  he  announced  his  Grrrand  Representations, 
"the  time  has  come  to  thank  Monsieur  Phil  for  the  great 


336  FATA  MORGANA 

and  numerous  services  which  he  has  rendered  us.  [Ap- 
plause.] Now  that  Monsieur  Phil  is  going  to  leave  us,  we 
do  not  wish  to  let  him  depart  without  saying  to  him — 
hum,  hum — how  grateful  we  are  for  his  having  been  will- 
ing to  put  his  talents  at  our  disposition.  ["Bravo!"] 
Hum,  hum— although  Monsieur  Phil  has  not  yet  set  up 
for  himself  in  the  fairs,  nevertheless  he  is  a  real  artiste ; 
and  the  delighted  public  looks  with  great  pleasure — I 
will  even  say  with  enchantment — at  the  portrait  which 
decorates  our  platform  and  represents  Mademoiselle  Su- 
zanne of  the  O'Poufaille  Family!" 

"Vive  la  joie!"  Suzanne  began. 

"Hear!  hear!" 

' '  Also  Monsieur  Pouf aille  's  portrait  in  his  exercises  of 
strength." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Pouf  aille,  squeezing  Phil's  hand  hard 
enough  to  crush  it. 

"Mesdames  et  messieurs,"  Perbaccho  continued,  "my 
modest  establishment  does  not  permit  me  to  offer  Phil, 
the  artiste,  that  salary  to  which  he  has  a  right  to  pre- 
tend ;  but  let  not  that  prevent  us  from  drinking  his 
health.  Come  now,  mesdames  et  messieurs,  here  's  to  the 
health  of  Monsieur  Phil ! ' ' 

It  was  not  a  thing  which  had  to  be  repeated ;  every 
one  drank  to  Phil 's  health ;  and  Phil  returned  thanks. 

Phil  enjoyed  the  popularity  he  had  won  by  his  friend- 
liness to  such  good  people.  It  was  true— to  please 
Suzanne,  he  had  done  her  portrait  with  a  few  hours' 
work.  Yet  Suzanne  did  not  welcome  him,  as  she  had 
done  in  the  old  times,  with  a  ' '  Good  day,  Phil !  Roll 
me  a  cigarette,  mon  petit!"  Even  her  monkeyshines 


A  BANQUET  ON  THE  SAWDUST  337 

ceased  in  his  presence;  this  was  something  he  did  not 
understand.  He  had  also  painted  Poufaille  as  a  Her- 
cules, lifting  enormous  weights.  Moreover,  he  had  ren- 
dered light  services  to  all  this  little  world  of  the  fair. 
He  had  his  recompense.  He  had  entered  most  intimately 
into  the  life  of  the  little  world.  His  album  had  been  en- 
riched by  any  number  of  sketches  and  types,  by  pictur- 
esque interiors  as  somber  and  stirring  with  life  as  those 
of  Rembrandt.  He  had  daring  foreshortenings  of  gym- 
nasts at  the  trapeze,  of  handsome  boys  and  pretty  girls 
with  muscles  like  antique  statues. 

Every  one  admired  the  strength  and  address  with 
which  a  simple  amateur  like  Phil  handled  the  dumb- 
bells or  climbed  the  smooth  rope.  They  were  only  as- 
tonished that,  with  a  talent  like  his,  he  did  not  open  a 
place  for  himself  to  do  portraits  at  four  or  five  francs 
apiece— that  would  bring  him  in  a  good  day's  earnings; 
and  this  would  not  include  the  pupils  who  would  be  with 
him  from  time  to  time— they  had  seen  some  of  them  at 
the  fair  with  him.  He  might  open  a  permanent  Beauty 
Exhibition ;  there  was  that  big  blonde,  especially — but 
they  never  spoke  to  him  about  that.  They  were  com- 
pletely ignorant  of  whom  he  was  or  whom  his  friends 
were.  Suzanne,  flighty  as  she  was,  was  discretion  itself 
on  this  point,  and  there  was  no  danger  of  Poufaille  talk- 
ing when  Suzanne  forbade  him.  No  one  suspected  that 
the  big  blonde  was  rich  enough  to  buy  up  the  circus  and 
its  artistes  with  it,  and  Signer  Perbaccho  to  boot,  as  well 
as  all  the  side-shows  and  the  whole  fair,  and  the  houses 
round  about  the  fair.  They  did  not  even  know  her 
name.  As  to  Phil,  when  they  met  him  in  the  circus- 


338  FATA  MORGANA 

tent,  or  with  the  wrestlers,  making  his  sketches,  they 
treated  him  like  any  other  comrade. 

The  Rowrers'  yacht  was  to  sail  for  Morgania  in  a  few 
days,  taking  away  the  whole  party,  after  two  months 
at  Camp  Rosemont.  Before  his  departure  Phil  wished 
to  give  pleasure  to  Poufaille  and  his  friends  by  this 
luncheon  with  him.  They  yielded  to  his  insistence,  and 
accepted  without  ceremony.  It  gave  him  little  trouble, 
and  he  brought  his  box  and  canvas  to  finish  a  study 
near  by  in  the  fields.  This  was  a  present  he  wished  to 
offer  to  Ethel,  and  it  reminded  him  of  the  pastimes  of 
other  days. 

On  the  morrow,  during  the  hunt — on  the  morrow, 
he  had  promised,  he  had  sworn  it  to  himself,  and  the 
moment  was  drawing  near— no  power  in  the  world  could 
hinder  him — and  yet  how  anxious  he  was!  He  was  al- 
ready in  a  fever  and  occupied  himself  with  this  lunch 
only  to  distract  his  thoughts,  to  prove  to  himself  that 
he  was  calm  and  reasonable,  that  he  had  not  lost  his 
head.  He  looked  at  the  groups  around  the  jumping- 
board  which  had  been  turned  into  a  table,  and  thought 
of  the  morrow.  He  surprised  himself  repeating  in  a 
low  tone:  "To-morrow!" 

"What  are  you  giving  us  with  your  'To-morrow'?" 
asked  Poufaille,  who  overheard  it.  ' '  Perhaps  to-morrow 
others  and  not  we  shall  be  drinking  the  wine.  I  know 
no  to-morrow  but  to-day !  I  tell  you  it  's  drinking  water 
that  makes  you  sad  and  dreamy." 

"And  you— is  it  wine  that  makes  you  so  gay?"  Phil 
retorted. 

"Well,  I  have  little  reason  to  be  gay,"  Poufaille  re- 


A  BANQUET   ON   THE   SAWDUST  339 

plied.  "If  I  drink,  it  is  to  stun  myself.  See  here,  do 
you  want  me  to  tell  you? — but  what  use  would  it  be! 
He  who  lives  will  see.  By  the  way,  you  know  that 
llelia  has  come  back  with  Sceurette.  She  's  in  town  for 
a  few  days. ' ' 

' '  What ! ' '  Phil  exclaimed ;  ' '  how  is  it  she  is  not  here  ? ' ' 

"She  was  tired,"  replied  Poufaille.  "But,  entre  nous, 
Phil,  you  'd  just  as  lief  she  should  n't  be  here— eh!" 

"But  why?"  Phil  asked. 

Poufaille  was  on  the  point  of  speaking,  but  some  one 
at  the  end  of  the  table  called  out  with  all  his  might: 

"Farine!   farine ! 
Embrassez  votre  voisine  ! " 

It  was  the  gallant  refrain  which  winds  up  rustic  feasts. 
Around  the  board  all  the  women  lent  themselves  with 
good  grace  to  the  custom.  Poufaille  devoured  Suzanne 
with  his  eyes. 

"Here  's  your  time,"  Phil  said  to  him.  "What  are 
you  waiting  for?  Kiss  her  now,  kiss  her;  she  owes  you 
as  much  as  that ! ' ' 

"Kiss  her?"  Poufaille  said,  looking  at  Phil  gloomily. 
"Are  you  making  fun  of  me?  She  has  n't  let  me  kiss 
her  for  more  than  a  month ;  she  's  furious  against  every 
one— against  myself!" 

"Oh,  now!'  said  Phil,  "Suzanne  furious?  She 
would  n't  be  so  gay." 

' '  I  tell  you  she  is ;  and  I  can  see  it.  Do  you  think  it 
gives  me  pleasure  to  take  the  blows  of  a  broomstick  on 
my  head?  The  stick  is  light,  it  is  true,  and  I  have  a 
false  pigskin  skull;  but  never  mind!  is  that  a  trade? 


340  FATA  MORGANA 

You  knew  me  and  you  knew  her.  I  was  the  creator  of 
'  Liberty '  and  '  Fraternity ' ;  and  now  you  see  what  I  am 
—a  fly-killer!  It  's  flattering,  heint  To  be  a  fly-killer 
when  I  feel  within  myself  the  soul  of  a  lion!" 

"Keep  up  your  hopes,"  Phil  answered;  "all  that  will 
change. ' ' 

"'Keep  up  your  hopes'!  But  you  know  nothing 
about  it,"  Poufaille  hurried  on  with  his  tragic  voice; 
"oh,  Suzanne  strikes  hard  with  her  die  done!  But  the 
hardest  is  that  I  should  pay  up  for  others.  Oh,  yes ;  I  re- 
ceive blows  which  ought  to  have  been  for  you!" 

"For  me?"  Phil  gasped. 

"Yes,  for  you — which  ought  to  have  been  for  you — 
for  you — you  hear?"  and  Poufaille  shook  Phil  by  the 
coat  collar.  ' '  I  tell  you,  it  's  your  fault ! ' ' 

"You  must  be  crazy,"  Phil  answered.  "What  have 
I  done?" 

"What  have  you  done?"  Poufaille  continued,  in  the 
excitement  of  his  glass  of  rum.  "Do  you  want  to  know 
what  you  have  done?  I  am  going  to  tell  you  what  you 
have  done— to  me!  You  have  stolen  my  share  of  hap- 
piness!" 

"Has  that  taken  hold  of  you  again?"  said  Phil.  .  "I 
thought  it  was  over — all  this  nonsense  about  stealing 
glory." 

"It  is  n't  glory,  I  tell  you!    It  's  happiness!" 

Phil  and  Poufaille  were  speaking  low,  and  no  one 
heard  them.  Suzanne  had  sat  down,  and  every  one  was 
accustomed  to  Poufaille 's  gestures.  No  one  paid  any 
attention. 

"Good  Poufaille,  dear  old  Poufaille,  I  am  sorry  to 


A  BANQUET  ON  THE   SAWDUST  341 

give  you  pain,  old  man,"  Phil  said  pleasantly,  as  he 
took  away  the  bottle. 

"No;  it  's  not  worth  while,"  Poufaille  said  sadly; 
"I  shall  drink  no  more.  Only  follow  what  I  say, — 
do  you  follow  ?  Do  you  know  why  I  am  not  married  ? ' ' 

"No,"  said  Phil,  putting  the  bottle  beyond  reach. 

"It  is  because  you  are  not  married. ' ' 

"Indeed!"  said  Phil.  "So,  my  good  Poufaille,  you 
wish  to  marry  me  off  like  that?" 

' '  Yes ;  as  you  swore  you  would  do ! "  answered  Pou- 
faille. 

"To  whom?" 

"To  Helia!" 

' '  Speak  lower ! ' '  Phil  said,  disquieted. 

But  even  if  they  had  talked  louder,  no  one  would  have 
caught  a  word.  Conversation  was  general  around  the 
board.  The  kissing  was  finished,  and  they  were  smok- 
ing cigarettes.  The  men  talked  horses,  balancing,  feats 
of  strength;  the  ladies  talked  dress,  spangled  maillots, 
gauze  skirts. 

Phil  and  Poufaille,  at  their  end  of  the  table,  were 
as  free  to  converse  as  if  they  had  been  alone.  Pou- 
faille now  bent  over  Phil,  as  if  to  tell  him  a  secret. 

"Yes;  you  swore  it!"  he  continued.  "And  Suzanne 
concludes  from  it  that  the  best  of  men  are  worth  nothing 
at  all— that  men  are  windmills  for  lying.  When  I  tell 
her  I  love  her,  that  I  '11  make  her  happy— when  I  swear 
to  her  that  I  cannot  live  without  her,  she  turns  on 
her  heel,  saying:  'That  's  all  humbug!'  and  that  she 
can  trust  no  one,  not  me  more  than  you;  that  it  costs 
nothing  to  get  down  on  one 's  knees ;  that  our  promises 


342  FATA   MORGANA 

and  oaths  ought  to  be  stuffed  down  our  throats ;  and  that 
the  way  you  treated  Helia  was  a  shame — " 

"Speak  lower!"  said  Phil. 

" — that  you  had  promised  her  marriage,"  Poufaille 
kept  on;  "that  you  loved  her  madly;  that  if  need  had 
been  you  would  have  taken  God  to  witness ;  that  you  had 
sworn  to  her  she  should  be  your  wife,  and  that  you  could 
not  live  without  her.  And,  besides,  it  was  no  sudden 
stroke — you  had  known  her  for  years,  you  had  long 
loved  her.  And  all  at  once,  without  any  one  knowing 
why,  just  because  you  earn  a  little  money  and  have 
talent,  while  she  is  only  a  poor  acrobat,— suddenly,  with- 
out reason,  you  know  her  no  longer;  and  if  you  should 
meet  her  in  the  street,  you  would  turn  your  head. 
That  's  what  Suzanne  says ;  and  she  has  more  head  than 
all  of  us — and  more  heart,  too!" 

Poufaille  looked  toward  Suzanne  with  a  sigh.  Then 
he  went  on  again:  "Oh,  Phil,  I  should  never  have  told 
you  all  this;  but,  ma  foi,  it  was  choking  me!  I  'm  not 
one  of  your  Northern  folks,  to  keep  a  secret.  To  me  it  's 
like  a  starched  collar — I  must  pull  it  off !  Now  give  me 
a  glass  of  wine ! ' ' 

Phil  hesitated. 

"Pour  it  out,  I  tell  you,"  Poufaille  insisted.  "I 
have  a  fever.  It  calms  me ;  and,  after  all,  there  's  truth 
in  wine ! ' ' 

Phil  poured  out  a  full  glass,  which  Poufaille  emptied. 

"Ah,  yes,  yes!"  he  went  on  again,  wanderingly,  as  he 
put  his  glass  down  on  the  table;  "when  I  think  that 
without  these  stories  she  would  have  been  my  wife— and 
now  she  will  not  be,  for  when  she  says  No,  it  means  no ! 


A  BANQUET  ON  THE  SAWDUST  343 

She  may  be  gay  to  look  at,  but  she  's  sad  at  heart.  She 
has  heaps  of  ideas  that  turn  my  blood.  On  my  honor, 
I  believe  she  will  end  in  a  convent !  What !  Phil,  I 
laugh  also;  but  I  have  no  desire  to  laugh.  It  's  only  by 
habit,  you  know ;  I  feel  more  like  weeping.  And  as  to 
all  those  stories  about  glory  which  bothered  me,  how 
stupid  one  is  to  curdle  one's  blood  for  so  little!  But 
my  happiness  is  gone  forever ;  I  shall  never  marry  Su- 
zanne, never,  never!" 

Poufaille 's  gestures  emphasized  his  words;  his  fist 
came  down  heavily  upon  the  table. 

"Eh,  over  there!  don't  break  anything,"  Suzanne 
cried.  "Poufaille,  you  're  losing  your  head!" 

"Yes,  I  'm  losing  it— I  mean  no!"  answered  Poufaille. 
"I  'm  only  telling  a  story." 

' '  That  's  no  reason  for  getting  into  a  rage, ' '  Suzanne 
answered  pleasantly. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  reason,"  Poufaille  murmured.  "There 
is  reason  to  get  into  a  rage — and  break  things!" 

"Calm  yourself;  be  quiet,"  said  Phil,  who  now  re- 
gretted that  he  had  come. 

"Bah!"  he  thought;  "is  it  worth  my  while  listening 
to  drunken  maunderings  ? "  But  the  hour  for  breaking 
up  was  near. 

Phil  stayed  on,  however,  and  Poufaille  kept  on  talk- 
ing. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  crossing  his  arms  and  looking  Phil 
in  the  face;  "after  all,  why  did  n't  you  marry  her? 
Yes,  why?  You  loved  Helia,  and  no  one  can  say  any- 
thing against  her.  You  agree  with  me  about  that,  I 
suppose?" 


344  FATA  MORGANA 

Phil  did  not  answer. 

"Dear  old  Phil,"  Poufaille  insisted  strongly,  "you 
can 't  deny  it  ?  We  should  n  't  be  friends  otherwise,  you 
know." 

"I  alone  must  be  judge  of  that,"  Phil  said. 

"No!"  Poufaille  said;  "that  's  your  new  way  of  look- 
ing at  things;  but  I  tell  you,  there  's  not  a  woman  in 
the  world  above  her — do  you  understand? — not  one!  I 
tell  you— not  one!" 

Phil  frowned. 

"I  'm  not  making  any  allusions,"  said  Poufaille. 

"I  should  hope  not,"  said  Phil. 

' '  I  am  only  telling  you  the  truth, ' '  Poufaille  declared ; 
"and  I  am  glad  to  have  said  it.  I  can  breathe  better 
now.  It  's  true !  It  turned  my  blood  to  hear  Suzanne 
telling  it,  with  Helia  so  sad.  When  I  think  that  you 
used  to  be  so  rigid  about  such  things— and  now  you 
act  just  like  the  others !  What  's  the  difference  between 
you  and  Socrate  ?  For  a  man  who  is  always  quoting 
the  Bible  and  setting  himself  up  as  an  example — you  're 
a  bad  one,  that  's  all ! " 

Phil  turned  pale. 

"Poufaille  is  drunk,"  he  thought.  "I  'd  best  go 
away. ' ' 

But  he  stayed  on ;  and  Poufaille  kept  on  talking ;  and 
Phil  listened,  in  spite  of  himself,  unmoved  to  all  ap- 
pearance, but  deeply  touched  at  bottom,  for  he  could  not 
say  to  Poufaille :  ' '  You  are  lying !  It  is  false !  I  prom- 
ised nothing!" 

"Yes,"  Poufaille  continued,  in  a  low  voice,  making 
sure  that  no  one  was  listening — "yes,  I  know  what  you 


A  BANQUET  ON  THE   SAWDUST  345 

might  say:  Helia's  surroundings,  Socrate,— I  know  not 
what.  You  have  suspected  her,  that  I  do  know!  Su- 
zanne has  told  me.  Our  good  Helia,  who  would  give 
her  life  for  you— if  she  only  gives  money  to  a  beggar 
you  suspect  her  for  it ;  for  Socrate  is  a  beggar— a  beggar 
she  keeps  alive  out  of  pure  charity,  just  as  she  helps 
Cemetery,  simply  because  he  is  old  and  cannot  work. 
But  you  know  that  as  well  as  I. " 

"But  the  duke/'  Phil  spoke  up.    "I  saw  Helia— 

' '  You  saw  Suzanne !  Ah,  I  've  blamed  Suzanne  often 
enough  for  it  since — what  an  idea  in  her  to  go  to  take 
supper  with  the  duke !  I  'd  rather  she  would  strike  me 
with  the  broomstick!" 

"And  yet,"  Phil  began. 

"It  's  true  the  duke  was  greatly  taken  with  her," 
Pouf aille  continued ;  ' '  she  had  only  a  word  to  say  and 
he  would  have  offered  her  anything.  She  never  ac- 
cepted a  thing— not  even  a  flower!" 

"Ah!"  said  Phil. 

"You  see,"  Pouf  aille  went  on,  "you  don't  care  much 
to  meet  Helia— you  have  your  own  reasons  for  it— 
for  she  is  here,  you  know!" 

Phil  raised  his  head,  as  if  he  expected  to  see  the  can- 
vas of  the  circus-tent  open  and  Helia  appear  there  look- 
ing at  him.  But  there  was  no  one  save  the  artistes  rising 
from  the  table  and  taking  away  the  things.  They  were 
even  removing  the  board,  so  as  to  leave  the  ring  free. 
In  the  stables  they  were  preparing  the  horses  for  re- 
hearsal. He  could  hear  the  harness  rattling,  and  the 
whips  snapping.  The  ring,  which  had  been  so  gay, 
suddenly  became  gloomy.  Phil  frankly  regretted  that 


346  FATA  MORGANA 

he  had  come.  He  had  a  single  thought, — how  to  get 
away.  Taking  up  his  color-box  and  canvas,  he  said 
good  day  to  every  one,  and  shook  Poufaille's  hand. 

"You  're  going  away?"  Poufaille  said.  "You  have  n't 
a  grudge  against  me,  I  hope — it  was  too  much  for  me!" 

"I  have  nothing  against  you,  old  Poufaille." 

"Shall  we  see  you  again  soon?" 

' '  Who  knows ! ' '  answered  Phil ;  adding  within  him- 
self:  "Perhaps  never!" 

As  he  went  out  he  ca*st  a  farewell  look  on  the  empty 
benches,  on  the  white  ladder  and  great  globe,  on  the 
saddles  and  the  maillots  which  were  drying,  and  on  the 
clowns'  costumes.  They  were  like  old  acquaintances 
whom  he  should  see  no  more. 


CHAPTER   VI 

WAS    POUFAILLE    RIGHT? 

ONCE  outside,  Phil  breathed  easier.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  the  open  air  was  driving  away  his 
nightmare,  as  the  sun  drives  the  darkness  be- 
fore it. 

"Poufaille  is  either  crazy  or  drunk,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  went  through  the  fair  with  his  paint-box  in 
his  hand.  ' '  Suzanne  won 't  have  him !  I  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it !  Is  that  a  reason  to  take  tragically  a  child- 
ish love-making?  And  why  should  Suzanne  interfere? 
Helia  has  never  even  breathed  a  word  of  it  to  me,  and 
I  've  seen  her  often  enough  since.  Surely,  love  must  be 
muddling  Poufaille's  brain,  if  it  is  not  the  blows  of 
the  broomstick.  He  forgets  that  I  am  no  longer  the 
little  boy  to  whom  Suzanne  was  a  great  actress,  Pou- 
faille  a  great  sculptor,  Caracal  a  great  psychologist,  and 
Socrate  a  painter-poet-thinker-philosopher !  There  's 
been  a  change  since  then— and  I  alone  am  judge  of  it." 

Phil  acknowledged  to  himself  that  he  had  been  a  lit- 
tle troubled.  Poufaille,  with  all  his  simplicity,  was  can- 
dor itself,  and  incapable  of  lying.  Yes, — Phil  repeated 
it  over  as  if  it  gave  him  relief :  Poufaille  was  drunk ; 
the  least  beer-drinker  would  see  ten  wine-drinkers  like 
347 


348  FATA   MORGANA 

that  under  the  table !  He  did  Pouf aille  too  much  honor 
by  listening  to  him;  and  Suzanne  was  a  scatterbrain. 
Leave  Suzanne  her  salad,  and  Pouf  aille  his  pig's-rump 
and  garlic  and  wine !  Leave  every  one  to  his  own  trade, 
and  let  them  stop  minding  his  affairs !  Think  of  it ! 
Now  that  he  was  a  man,  just  when  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  a  young  girl  whom  no  one  could  approach, 
unless  with  a  pure  conscience— it  was  now  that  Pouf  aille 
would  bring  him  down  to  the  ground,  reproaching  him 
with  having  proved  false  to  an  oath, — with  having  been 
cowardly  and  mean,  as  if  he  had  taken  up  with  Helia  to 
amuse  himself  with  her  and  then  cast  her  away!  Pou- 
f aille,  stupid  and  drunken,  had  said  as  much ! 

The  absurdity  of  the  idea,  even  more  than  the  open 
air  and  gay  sunlight,  drove  from  his  memory  the  sculp- 
tor's idle  tales. 

Phil  hastened  his  steps,  for  he  wished  to  finish  the 
little  picture  which  he  had  in  his  box.  It  was  a  nook  of 
the  landscape  out  beyond  the  last  scattering  houses  of 
the  town— a  charming  spot  which  they  had  discovered 
one  day  in  the  automobile.  It  was  a  place  which  had 
greatly  pleased  Miss  Ethel. 

She  had  said:  "There  are  spots  which  you  see  for 
the  first  time,  and  yet  they  impress  you  like  old  friends. 
Would  it  not  be  delightful  to  have  a  little  cottage  here, 
and  take  care  of  one's  own  flowers.  But  no!  one  must 
have  autos  and  horses — Longchamps  and  Epsom  and 
Haymarket — ah!  what  fools  these  mortals  be!" 

The  snorting  forty-horse-power  machine  bore  them 
afar  while  she  was  still  building  her  little  cottage. 

"If  I  were  a  painter,"  she  added,  "that  is  what  I 


WAS  POUFAILLE  RIGHT?  349 

would  paint.  With  the  simplest  subject  you  can  make 
a  masterpiece.  This  nook  has  pleased  me,  and  I  shall 
come  back  to  it,  be  sure ! ' ' 

Phil  said  nothing  at  the  time;  but  he  determined  to 
paint  the  nook  which  had  pleased  Ethel  so  much,  and 
to  give  the  picture  to  her  as  a  surprise  before  they  left 
for  Morgania. 

Phil  passed  through  the  parts  of  the  town  which 
were  between  the  open  country  and  the  fair.  They  were 
like  the  outskirts  of  other  towns,  with  little  boxes  of 
houses  and  grimy  wine-shops,  and  with  great  bare 
spaces  where  goats,  the  cows  of  the  poor  man,  bleated 
despairingly.  Just  beyond  was  the  full,  open  country. 
He  approached  the  spot  chosen  by  Miss  Ethel.  The 
noise  of  the  town  was  no  longer  heard;  before  him  were 
the  gently  rising  hills  crossed  by  flowering  hedges  and 
great  leafy  groves,  in  which  the  birds  were  playing. 

Phil  set  up  his  easel  in  a  shady  spot,  where  Ethel 
had  lingered.  It  was  by  a  hedge  above  a  slope  leading 
down  to  a  footpath.  He  opened  his  box,  prepared 
his  colors,  and  set  to  work.  At  times  he  leaned  back  to 
judge  better  the  effect  of  the  whole  picture.  At  times 
he  bent  over  to  put  in  a  touch ;  and  as  he  painted,  he  let 
his  mind  wander  as  it  would. 

He  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  morrow— of  the 
chasse  a  courre,  the  mounted  deer-hunt  with  dogs,  with 
which  the  Comtesse  de  Donjeon  was  honoring  the 
camping-party.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  already 
there,  taking  in  all  its  details.  Even  his  costume  oc- 
cupied his  mind— the  Chantilly  boots,  the  full  white 
breeches,  the  double-breasted  coat,  the  high  felt  hat— 


350  FATA  MORGANA 

the  things  which  constitute  the  true  huntsman's  cos- 
tume. It  would  become  him  well ;  and  how  charming 
she  would  be,  with  her  blond  hair  under  the  three-cor- 
nered marquise  hat! 

Phil  already  fancied  himself  hearing  the  joyful  notes 
of  the  hunting-horn,  and  watching  the  unrestrained 
galloping  beneath  the  great  trees, — a  vision  of  the 
Middle  Ages,  with  plumed  knights  and  gentle  ladies  on 
their  palfreys.  Oh!  there  was  one  gentle  lady  who 
would  follow  the  hunt  with  him, — and,  lover  as  he  was, 
Phil  thought  there  would  be  monstrous  daring  in  his 
wish  to  offer  Miss  Rowrer  a  nosegay  of  wild  flowers,— 
for  certainly  she  would  see  his  trouble  of  soul,  and  he 
would  betray  himself  as  he  offered  it.  Miss  Rowrer 
could  not  be  offended,  of  course !  she  had  been  too 
much  courted  in  society  not  to  allow  a  little  of  it  in 
the  country.  It  was  the  business  of  bores  in  society 
life;  but  supposing  she  saw  what  he  meant,  would  she 
deign  to  encourage  him? 

All  this  preoccupied  Phil,  as  he  put  the  finishing 
touches  to  his  landscape.  The  place  inclined  to  reverie. 
While  he  was  there,  scarcely  two  or  three  persons  had 
passed  along  the  road  below.  They  could  not  see  him ; 
it  would  be  necessary  to  climb  up  the  slope  and  break 
through  the  hawthorn  hedge.  For  two  hours  Phil  had 
been  working.  He  had  reached  the  time,  so  dangerous 
for  the  artist,  when  a  few  strokes  too  much  spoil  the 
picture.  He  resolved  to  leave  it  as  it  was,  without  any 
working  up,  in  all  its  freshness  of  first  inspiration.  He 
was  preparing  to  close  his  box  and  fold  his  easel  before 
going  back  to  Camp  Rosemont;  but  two  persons  ap- 


Phil  Watching  Ik'lia  and  Socrate 


WAS  POUFAILLE   RIGHT?  353 

peared  in  the  lane  below.  He  gave  them  no  more  at- 
tention than  he  had  given  to  others.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  a  man  was  speaking,  and  a  woman  replying.  He 
did  not  see  them;  but  when. they  came  near  him  he  rec- 
ognized their  voices. 

He  stopped  motionless  and  listened  again,  thinking 
he  must  have  been  mistaken.  He  leaned  over  and 
looked  through  the  branches  of  the  hedge.  It  was  in- 
deed they— Helia  and  Socrate. 

Phil  felt  a  chill  at  his  heart.  He  would  like  to 
have  had  Poufaille  there  for  a  moment — only  for  a 
moment — yet  no !  he  would  be  the  only  witness !  He 
would  see  falling  away  before  him,  dropping  to  the 
dust,  petal  by  petal,  the  flower  of  his  childish  love.  He 
was  going  to  hear  Helia  talking  sweetly,  arm  in  arm, 
with  the  painter-thinker.  His  little  Saint  John  of  other 
days,  so  pure  and  simple,  he  would  hear  her;  but,  ah, 
how  he  wished  that  he  was  not  there,  that  he  could  not 
hear! 

But  he  heard  everything.  Bits  of  conversation 
mounted  up  to  him  as  if  torn  asunder  by  the  thorns 
of  the  hedge. 

"Listen  to  me!"  Socrate  was  saying. 

' '  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say, ' '  answered  Helia. 
"Begone!— I  have  told  you— no!" 

"Yet  you  were  so  good  to  me,"  continued  the  tear- 
ful voice  of  Socrate,  using  the  familiar  "thou." 

"Socrate,  I  tell  you  once  again,  you  are  to  say  'you' 
when  you  speak  to  me,"  Helia  interrupted  firmly. 
"Any  one  listening  to  you  might  think  you  had  rights 


over  me ! 


I" 


354  FATA  MORGANA 

"But  no  one  is  listening!" 

' ' I  hear  you ! ' ' 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  They  had  stopped 
and  Phil  looked  at  them.  He  was  astounded  by  the 
change  in  Socrate.  His  beard  was  unkempt,  and  he 
lowered  his  head  with  an  air  at  once  humble  and  ag- 
gressive. He  spoke  to  Helia  with  looks  which  he  tried 
to  render  touching.  On  his  ragged  garments  were  bits 
of  straw,  as  if  he  had  slept  in  a  stack.  It  was  clear 
that  Socrate  had  been  wandering  around  the  neigh- 
borhood for  several  days,  waiting  for  Helia.  He  must 
have  met  her  by  chance  and,  yielding  to  his  entreaties, 
she  had  followed  him  to  have,  alone  with  him,  a  final 
explanation. 

Helia  was  pale,  tired  from  her  journey,  as  Poufaille 
had  said.  Her  black  eyes  shone  feverishly.  In  her 
modest  black  gown  she  seemed  to  Phil  more  beautiful 
than  ever,  and  more  refined.  She  scarcely  turned  her 
head  toward  Socrate ;  and  her  glance  at  him  was  that  of 
scornful  pity. 

"You  who  were  so  good  to  me,"  the  tearful  voice 
went  on. 

' '  Too  good,  it  is  true ! ' '  answered  Helia.  ' '  I  saw  your 
wretchedness, — that  you  were  starving, — and  I  believed 
in  your  genius.  I  would  have  been  proud  to  help  a 
poet, — to  have  had  something  to  do,  no  matter  how  little, 
with  the  production  of  a  masterpiece.  I  sinned  by 
pride ;  I  thought  I  could  lift  myself  in  the  eyes  of  others 
— especially  in  his  eyes,"  she  added  slowly.  "I  thought 
I  was  acting  for  the  best ;  I  was  wrong ! ' ' 

"Why  were  you  wrong?" 


WAS  POUFAILLE  RIGHT?  355 

"It  is  wrong  to  aid  one  who  does  nothing!*' 

"Ah!"  replied  the  man,  with  his  look  of  a  beaten 
dog,  "it  is  not  my  fault  if  I  have  not  fulfilled  my 
dream.  Society  is  pitiless  to  thinkers!  Those  who 
march  to  a  lofty  goal  are  disdained  by  the  common 
herd!" 

Socrate,  as  he  spoke,  clenched  his  fist.  Phil  could 
see  his  fingers  working  spasmodically — ah !  if  he  could 
only  strangle  the  whole  world !  Helia  did  not  let  her 
eyes  fall  so  low.  She  fixed  them  on  the  face  of  So- 
crate, scorning  his  impotent  gestures. 

' '  Silence !    You  are  only  grotesque ! ' ' 

"Be  it  so,  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  the  voice  went 
on.  "But  I  can  make  amends  for  my  wrong-doing. 
Ah !  if  you  only  were  willing — if  you  were  willing,  I 
could  make  you  happy.  I  would  occupy  myself  with 
your  affairs;  you  should  be  rid  of  every  care.  You 
would  have  a  sure  friend,  and  I,  too, — I  would  become 
an  artiste !" 

"You— an  artiste !" 

She  drew  herself  up  to  her  full  height  and  looked 
at  the  great  empty  forehead,  at  the  chicken-necked  and 
round-shouldered  Socrate,  at  his  sallow  skin,  his  moral 
hideousness,  this  rag  of  a  painter  and  poet  and  thinker 
and  philosopher. 

"An  artiste— you!  Why,  you  would  not  be  capable 
even  to  show  a  shaved  bear,  or  a  sick  dog,  or  a  two- 
headed  calf!  Oh,  I  know  you!  You  'd  like  to  be  a 
professor  and  train  S(Burette  with  strokes  of  the  whip, 
if  you  were  allowed!  And  you  'd  always  be  there  at 
my  side,  to  steer  me  through  life  like  a  devoted  friend, 


356  FATA  MORGANA 

would  you?  Just  as  you  used  to  do  before.  And  when 
I  think  that  people  may  have  said  as  much,  and  per- 
haps believed  that  I  was  your — friend, — and  when  I 
remember  that  you  advised  me  to  frequent  the  com- 
pany of  a  rich  duke  and  forget  the  friend  of  my  child- 
hood,— when  I  think  of  all  that,  it  is  enough  to  make 
me  die  of  shame!" 

Socrate  gnashed  his  teeth. 

"So  it  's  the  friend  of  your  childhood,  is  it?— al- 
ways he?" 

' '  Always  he ! "  said  Helia,  simply. 

"Yet  you  know— I  have  told  you— that  he  loves  an- 
other." 

"I  know  it." 

"And  that  he  no  longer  cares  for  you." 

"I  shall  believe  it  when  he  tells  me  so  himself,"  was 
Helia 's  answer. 

Socrate  put  his  hands  to  his  head,  as  if  to  say:  "Can 
one  be  such  a  fool ! ' ' 

"But,  really,"  he  said  aloud,  "since  you  love  him 
so  much,  why  do  you  not  use  the  weapons  you  have  to 
bring  him  back  to  you?" 

"Weapons!" 

"His  letters!" 

"You  are  a  miserable  fellow!  See— here  are  his  let- 
ters ! ' '  And  Helia  took  from  her  breast  a  few  yellowed 
envelops.  "They  might,-  indeed,  fall  into  the  hands 
of  a  wretch  like  you."  And  opening  them,  she  tore 
the  pages  in  small  pieces. 

"But  there  's  a  fortune  in  them  for  you!"  gasped 
Socrate.  "You  don't  know  what  you  are  doing!" 


WAS  POUFAILLE  RIGHT?  357 

"There  's  what  I  care  for  such  a  fortune!"  said 
Helia ;  and  she  opened  wide  her  hand.  It  might  have 
been  a  flight  of  white  butterflies.  The  light  breeze 
scattered  the  fragments  on  every  side.  Some  seemed 
to  hesitate,  as  if  issuing  from  a  warm  nest,  and  then 
mounted  upward,  whirling  around  in  space.  Others 
fell  on  the  hedge.  All  these  poor  little  things  which 
had  been  promises  of  love,  and  held  in  themselves  an 
entire  youth,  were  scattered  at  once  by  a  breath  from 
heaven. 

"Yet  I  loved  them  well,"  she  said.  "Only  it  is  bet- 
ter so/' 

Then,  speaking  to  Socrate,  she  added  proudly:  "I 
will  not  have  him  love  me  for  fear, — I  wish  him  to  love 
me  for  love 's  sake ! ' ' 

Blushing  for  shame,  she  turned  her  back  to  Socrate, 
and  walked  away  without  a  look  behind.  The  man 
began  following  her.  She  turned  back  a  last  time, 
stopped  him  with  an  imperious  gesture,  and  disap- 
peared in  the  lane. 

Socrate,  in  his  fury,  growled  like  a  wolf.  Phil  saw 
him  turn  his  head  rapidly,  to  make  sure  there  was 
no  one  near,  and  then  put  his  hand  quickly  to  his 
pocket,  as  if  to  take  out  a  knife.  But  no  doubt  what 
he  sought  was  not  there;  and  his  hand  came  forth 
empty— luckily  for  Socrate,  since  Phil  would  have  leaped 
the  hedge  with  a  bound  and  fallen  on  him  like  a  thunder- 
bolt. Then  Socrate  disappeared  among  the  trees  with 
a  furtive  look. 

Phil  remained  alone.  He  put  everything  in  order, 
folding  his  things  together,  and  went  away.  He  felt 


358  FATA  MORGANA 

a  sort  of  embarrassment — a  shame  that  made  him 
hurry  his  footsteps  as  if  to  flee  from  himself. 

Was  Poufaille  right?  Phil  passed  his  hand  across 
his  forehead.  A  thousand  things  came  back  to  him 
now;  a  bright  light  was  thrown  on  the  abyss  where  his 
youth  had  perished.  The  flight  of  the  white  butterflies 
had  been  a  seed  of  remembrance  to  him— the  remem- 
brance of  the  love  of  his  boyhood.  Had  it  been  the 
romantic  passion  of  an  ignorant  heart?  No;  there  had 
been  broken  promises  and  contempt  of  oaths ! 

Well,  even  in  such  a  case,  drunken  Poufaille  had  ex- 
aggerated; Helia  was  more  reasonable.  She  must  un- 
derstand that  it  was  impossible.  She  could  not  deceive 
herself  to  such  a  degree,  nor  keep  on  pursuing  im- 
aginations never  to  be  realized.  Her  own  words,  "I 
shall  believe  it  when  he  tells  me  so  himself,"  were  a  con- 
fession. She  would  submit  to  the  inevitable.  How 
was  she  going  to  take  the  final  rupture?  Phil,  in  his 
heart,  trembled  to  think  of  it,  but  it  had  to  be!  He 
would  tell  her  everything ;  he  would  take  back  the  word 
he  had  given.  He  would  speak  to  her,  lowering  his  eyes, 
hunting  for  his  words;  low,  as  when  one  begs  for  for- 
giveness. Never  mind,  he  would  tell  her !  He  would  act 
as  with  a  somnambulist,  commanding:  "Awake!  it  was  a 
dream ! ' ' 

Yes;  Helia  would  understand,  without  need  of  in- 
sisting. They  would  part  with  a  loyal  shake  of  the  hand, 
like  the  good  friends  they  were,  and  would  follow  sepa- 
rate destinies. 

Phil  walked  on,  without  looking  behind,  like  one  es- 
caping. He  felt  easier  in  his  mind.  No,  there  was  not 


WAS  POUFAILLE  EIGHT?  359 

such  a  tragedy  in  it  all  as  Pouf aille  had  led  him  to 
foresee.  Things  would  go  on  simply,  Phil  mused  within 
himself.  For  him  it  was  the  time  of  slanting  sophisms 
which  issue  from  the  folds  of  the  heart  like  crabs  from 
under  a  rock.  He  was  more  sincere  and  manly  when  he 
put  aside  with  a  gesture  all  his  anguish  and  uncertainty 
and,  setting  his  jaw,  lifted  his  head  as  he  said  to  him- 
self: "It  is  too  late!  Fate  has  willed  it;  all  society 
would  be  on  my  side ;  they  would  say  I  was  right.  Even 
if  Helia's  tears  should  flow,  even  if  I  should  see  in  her 
eyes  a  mute  malediction  for  the  slayer  of  her  illusions, 
I  could  do  no  otherwise ;  it  is  too  late ! ' ' 

Phil  breathed  deeply,  as  if  his  breast  had  been  light- 
ened of  a  heavy  load.  He  looked  around  him  with  the 
air  of  a  man  to  whom  the  future  belongs. 

Lowering  his  eyes,  he  saw  upon  his  shoulder  one  of 
the  poor  little  fragments  of  torn  letters.  Phil  threw 
it  from  him  with  a  snap  of  his  finger. 


CHAPTER    VII 

"A  TRUE  HEART  LOVES  BUT  ONCE  " 

THE  day  for  which  Phil  had  waited  so  impatiently 
was  come  at  last — the  day  of  the  chasse  a  courre. 
Ethel  left  the  hunt  and  came  back  alone  to  the 
glade  where  grandma,  a  little  tired  and  seated  in  the 
great  break,  was  waiting  for  the  return  of  the  hunters. 
She  got  down  from  her  horse  and  tossed  the  reins  to  a 
valet.  The  sun  lighted  up  the  tops  of  the  lofty  trees, 
leaving  all  the  rest  in  the  shade.  From  afar  they  heard 
the  voices  of  the  hounds.  The  hunting-horn  filled  the 
forest  with  a  far-away  melody. 

' ' Poor  little  doe ! ' '  said  Ethel,  "it  is  nearly  an  hour 
since  she  left  the  thicket,  followed  by  the  hounds.  She 
must  be  by  this  time  in  the  pretty  valley  I  chris- 
tened the  other  day  the  Forest  of  Arden— you  remem- 
ber?— when  I  was  reading  there  Shakspere's  'As  You 
Like  It.'  They  must  have  lost  the  scent— her  mate 
is  leading  the  dogs  away  from  her,  no  doubt.  But  it 
is  not  for  that  I  have  come  back,  grandma.  I  wish  to 
speak  with  you. ' ' 

"Why  don't  you  follow  the  hunt?"  grandma  asked. 
"Has  anything  happened  to  you,  Ethel?" 

"Nothing  at  all,  grandma.    My  horse  was  in  splendid 


"A  TRUE  HEART  LOVES  BUT  ONCE"    361 

form,  and  I,  too ;  but,  while  taking  a  ditch,  she  lost  a 
shoe.  She  's  limping  a  little,  I  think.  And  then — 
and  then  I  could  n't  see  you  alone  yesterday  at  the 
chateau,  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.  But  let  us 
not  stay  here;  they  might  overhear  us,"  Ethel  added, 
glancing  at  the  lackeys,  who  were  loading  into  a 
van  the  champagne-baskets  and  other  remains  of  the 
picnic. 

"I  will  get  down,"  said  grandma.  Leaning  on 
Ethel's  arm,  she  got  out  of  the  break  and  they  crossed 
the  open  space. 

"Let  us  go  over  there,"  Ethel  said,  pointing  to  one 
of  those  graceful  edifices  called  nymphees,  which  are 
the  necessary  ornament  of  every  self-respecting  park. 
It  consisted  of  a  bench,  green  with  the  mold  of  time 
and  surrounded  by  a  colonnade  covered  with  moss  and 
ivy.  It  gave  this  corner  of  the  forest  a  mythological 
note.  It  was  like  one  of  those  rustic  shrines  where,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  sacred  grove,  goddesses  were  ap- 
peased by  the  offering  of  victims. 

"Who  would  not  say  this  is  a  scene  of  Shakspere's 
fancy?"  said  Ethel.  "Listen  to  the  hunting-horn— 
you  might  believe  you  were  in  an  enchanted  forest. 
But,"  she  added,  as  grandma  sat  down,  "there  is  no 
question  now  of  Will  the  Great,  but  only  of  our  own 
dear  Will,  and  of  Mile.  Yvonne." 

"She  's  very  nice,"  said  grandma.  "She  '11  profit 
a  great  deal  by  your  company,  between  Will  and  you. 
From  being  a  doll,  Yvonne  will  soon  become  a  woman." 

"Mile.  Yvonne  is  already  a  woman— a  true  one," 
Ethel  went  on,  gravely.  "She  has  an  upright  mind 
and  a  strong  and  resolute  heart;  and  I  love  her." 


362  FATA   MORGANA 

"She  's  going  to  marry  Will?"  grandma  exclaimed, 
starting  up.  "That  dear  little  Yvonne?" 

"No,  granflma,  Yvonne  will  never  be  Will's  wife. 
She  has  refused." 

"What  did  I  say?"  grandma  replied.  "She  's  a 
doll — she  does  n't  know  what  she  wants!  Does  a  young 
girl  let  herself  be  buried  alive  like  that?  Why 
should  n't  she  show  herself  as  she  is  and  say:  'I  will!' 
when  her  happiness  is  at  stake?  She  has  much  in  com- 
mon with  Will,  I  am  sure.  But  in  this  country  no  one 
dares  to  say  what  she  thinks;  people  don't  look  each 
other  squarely  in  the  face.  If  you  wish,  Ethel,  we  '11 
leave  for  America  to-morrow!" 

"Wait  a  bit,  grandma,  and  then  you  '11  love  Yvonne 
with  all  your  heart." 

"After  what  she  has  done?     Never!" 

"Because  of  what  she  has  done?  Sit  down  again, 
grandma,  and  I  will  tell  you  everything." 

"You  will  waste  your  breath,  Ethel." 

"Wait,"  Ethel  continued.  "Will  was  very  much 
taken  with  Yvonne — I  am  sure  that  now  he  would  be 
much  more  so  if  he  were  only  allowed.  The  fact  that 
he  has  been  refused  shows  him  so  much  better  the 
woman  he  is  losing.  It  has  been  a  revelation  to  us.  He 
was  conquered  by  Yvonne  as  Desdemona  by  Othello. 
In  a  way  he  pitied  the  young  girl's  lot — it  was  so  child- 
ish ;  there  was  so  little  society  for  her.  One  ball  a  year, — 
a  poor  little  ball,  next  to  nothing, — a  life  passed  in 
the  dim  light  of  curtains  half  drawn,  near  a  deserted 
street,  the  strong  contrast  with  Will's  stormy  life  in 
Chicago." 


"A  TEUE  HEART   LOVES  BUT  ONCE"         363 

"That  is  real  life!"  said  grandma. 

"Well,"  Ethel  continued,  "everything  took  hold  of 
Will,  just  as  a  man  deafened  with  the  noise  of  ma- 
chinery loves  the  murmur  of  bees." 

"Oh,  it  is  France  Will  's  in  love  with,"  grandma 
said.  "It  was  his  auto  journey  from  Paris  and  our 
excursions  round  the  camp  that  he  was  going  to  marry 
—it  's  only  a  fancy  already  passed." 

"No;  it  will  never  pass!"  answered  Ethel.  "It  is 
true  all  his  impressions  were  personified  in  Yvonne; 
but  she  shows  such  sterling  qualities  that  she  has  no 
need  to  personify  anything  to  be  loved." 

"You  must  tell  me  everything,  Ethel,"  said  grand- 
ma. 

"This  is  the  way  it  happened.  Of  course,  it  was 
impossible  for  Will  to  speak  alone  with  Yvonne,  espe- 
cially on  such  subjects.  Besides,  he  never  had  the  op- 
portunity; and  then— it  is  n't  done!  In  France,  when 
a  young  man  sees  a  young  girl  that  pleases  him,  he 
asks  her  parents  for  her;  and  her  parents  accept  or 
refuse." 

"How  dreadful!"  said  grandma. 

"Will,"  Ethel  kept  on,  "was  speaking  about  it  one 
day  to  Mme.  Ricois." 

"Mme.  Ric.ois?    What  has  she  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"Why,  everything,  grandma;  everything!  If  it  had 
not  been  for  Mme.  Ric.ois  we  should  have  gone  off  to 
Morgania  without  anything  being  decided.  Will 
passed  his  young  days  between  our  mines  in  Montana 
and  the  Chicago  Stock  Exchange,  and  never  had  time 
to  be  in  love.  Mme.  Ric.ois  opened  his  eyes.  I  ought 


364  FATA  MORGANA 

to  tell  you  that  she  is  the  most  inveterate  marrier  of  the 
town." 

"A  marrier?     I  thought  she  was  a  banker's  wife!'7 

"Oh,  she  has  to  do  something,"  replied  Ethel. 
"Mme.  Ric.ois  makes  matches  to  please  herself.  The 
little  woman  delights  in  it.  I  can  imagine  her  embroi- 
dering on  her  sleeve,  like  an  officer's  stripes,  the  num- 
ber of  marriages  she  has  brought  about." 

' '  How  dreadful ! ' '  said  grandma. 

"She  and  Will  are  great  friends.  Would  you  be- 
lieve it,  grandma?— last  month  she  said  to  him  point- 
blank  :  '  Mr.  Rowrer,  I  must  find  a  match  for  you ! '  Will 
only  laughed.  'Now,  don't  say  No!'  Mme.  Ric.ois  added 
mysteriously;  'I  have  a  great  scheme  in  my  head.' 
'What  is  your  scheme?'  Will  asked,  more  and  more 
amused.  'But  you  must  n't  tell  anybody!  I  wish  to 
bring  about  a  Franco- American  alliance ! '  Will  did  n  't 
answer,  but  I  saw  he  understood,  for  I  was  present." 

"And  what  then?"  asked  grandma. 

"Naturally  they  began  talking  about  marriage.  Mme. 
Rigois  told  us  how  she  takes  hold  of  the  matter;  the 
measures  she  takes  for  the  parents:  'I  've  found  a 
young  man  who  is  quite  in  your  line ;  this  is  his  situ- 
ation.' Thereupon  a  family  council  is  held,  and  the 
young  girl  is  consulted  as  a  matter  of  form.  Oh,  there  's 
a  whole  minute  and  complicated  diplomacy." 

"And  yet  it  would  be  so  simple  for  the  young  folks 
to  explain  matters  to  each  other!"  grandma  exclaimed. 

"That  is  what  Will  answered;  but  Mme.  Rigois  ob- 
jected that  this  is  never  done.  I  thought  as  much,  but 
I  know  France.  It  was  quite  new  to  Will ;  and  he  kept 


"A  TRUE   HEART   LOVES  BUT  ONCE"         365 

repeating:  'Is  it  possible?  Is  it  possible?  For  my 
part,  I  'd  like  to  be  better  acquainted  with  the  girl  I 
marry !  I  shall  certainly  never  get  married  in  France. ' 
Then  Mme.  Rigois  spoke  up:  'The  main  thing  is  that 
you  should  please  the  parents.'  'But  it's  the  young 
girl  I  want  to  please,  and  to  know  if  I  am  pleasing  her/ 
Will  said  obstinately.  'M.  Rowrer, '  Mme.  Ric,ois  said, 
'  I  have  made  twenty  marriages  and  they  're  all  happy ; 
and  I  myself  married  my  husband  without  being  ac- 
quainted with  him.  That  was  thirty  years  ago,  and 
our  honeymoon  is  not  over  yet ! '  '  Perhaps  she  is  right, ' 
Will  said  when  Mme.  Rigois  was  gone.  'Marriages 
seem  to  me  as  happy  here  as  anywhere.  Different  coun- 
tries have  different  manners,  but  at  bottom  they  're  all 
the  same.'  I  'm  persuaded,  grandma,  that  from  that 
day  the  Franco- American  alliance  began.  I  mean  that 
the  remembrance  of  Mile.  Yvonne  was  crystallized  in 
his  heart." 

While  Ethel  was  speaking  the  shadows  had  grown 
darker  beneath  the  trees.  A  purple  haze  softened  the 
outlines  of  the  glade.  There  was  deep  silence,  with  now 
and  then  an  echo  of  the  hunting-horns,  light  as  the 
humming  of  a  fly.  Again  the  hunt  found  its  way,  and 
the  doe,  abandoned  by  her  cowardly  mate,  turned  back 
toward  her  haunts.  Soon  the  hallali  would  push  her 
to  the  thicket  from  which  she  had  started,  and  where, 
at  the  end  of  her  strength,  she  would  take  shelter  to 
die. 

"Listen,"  Ethel  said  to  grandma,  "Will,  Phil,  and 
every  one  are  out  there,  forgetful  of  care  and  trouble, 
chasing  to  its  death  a  poor,  innocent  animal.  Isn't  it 


366  FATA  MORGANA 

sad?"  Then,  taking  up  her  interrupted  conversation, 
she  continued:  ''From  that  day,  especially,  Will 
thought  of  Mile.  Yvonne.  He  saw  her  again  several 
times  and  fell  more  and  more  under  her  charm,  in  spite 
of  their  commonplace  interviews.  Each  time  he  dis- 
covered new  qualities  in  her.  When  I  praised  her,  Will 
was  glad  to  listen;  and  Mme.  Ric,ois  was  always  after 
him  with  the  scheme  of  the  alliance.  You  can  imagine 
that  it  did  n't  please  Will  much  to  be  obliged  to  win 
the  parents  in  order  to  get  the  girl.  Well!  he  won 
over  everybody.  As  to  grand 'mere,  who  is  the  Egeria 
of  the  family,  the  one  that  decides  difficult  cases  with- 
out appeal  from  her  judgment — 

"Grand 'mere  said  no  for  Yvonne?"  grandma  asked. 

"Grand 'mere  said  yes!" 

"But  if  mother  and  grandmother,  uncles  and  aunts, 
and  Mme.  Ric,ois  say  yes,  who  is  it  says  no?" 

"Yvonne  says  no." 

"Well,  I  declare!"  grandma  exclaimed,  in  amaze- 
ment. It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  declared  since 
she  was  in  France,  but  never  with  such  energy.  In  her 
voice  there  were  astonishment  and  anger  and  admiration 
and,  most  of  all,  curiosity. 

"How  did  it  happen,  Ethel?  Tell  me  all!"  and  she 
turned  her  face  toward  her  granddaughter  with  an  ex- 
pression of  anxiety. 

"Ah!"  Ethel  replied,  "who  would  ever  suspect  that 
Yvonne  had  a  romance  in  her  life?" 

"A  romance  in  Yvonne's  life!  What  are  you  telling 
me,  Ethel?  Watched  as  she  is,  a  romance!  It  must 
have  been  with  another  doll! — when  she  was  ten  years 


"A  TRUE  HEART  LOVES  BUT  ONCE"         367 

old — or  when  she  was  playing  husband  and  wife  with 
some  child  of  her  own  age ! ' ' 

"Exactly  so,"  Ethel  answered,  with  a  serious  look. 
"Listen!  Yesterday  I  went  in  the  auto  to  the  Gro- 
jeans',  to  say  good  day  as  I  passed.  I  suspected  no- 
thing. Everything  was  shut  up,  as  usual.  I  knocked 
and  was  let  in.  The  door  of  the  salon  opened,  and 
Yvonne,  who  had  recognized  my  voice,  came  toward  me 
with  outstretched  hands,  and  said  :  '  Oh,  it  's  you !  How 
glad  I  am!  Come  in!'  ' 

Grandma  was  immensely  interested,  and  listened,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  those  of  Ethel,  with  a  scarcely  per- 
ceptible movement  of  her  lips,  as  if,  in  her  anxiety  to 
lose  nothing,  she  were  repeating  the  words  to  herself. 

"By  the  way  in  which  Yvonne  took  my  hand,"  Ethel 
went  on,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  understood  something  was 
happening.  The  Grojean  ladies  were  there,  silent  and 
much  embarrassed,  and  there  was  Mme.  RiQois,  as  red  as 
possible.  I  looked  at  Yvonne.  'My  dear  friend,' 
Yvonne  said  to  me,  'I  am  glad  you  came.  Perhaps  you 
know  what  is  going  on.  For  me  it  's  my  first  news  of  it. 
They  have  just  told  me  of  a  great  scheme,— an  offer  so 
honorable  and  so  flattering —  That  moment,  grandma, 
I  understood  they  had  just  communicated  to  Yvonne 
Will 's  intentions.  By  the  way  in  which  the  ladies  listened 
to  Yvonne,  I  also  learned  that  she  had  not  yet  given 
her  answer.  She  was  going  to  speak  in  my  presence. 

"  'The  offer  is  so  flattering,'  Yvonne  said,  looking 
me  squarely  in  the  face,  'and  I  should  have  been  so  very 
happy  to  call  you  my  sister;  the  marriage  would  over- 
whelm every  one  here  with  joy'  (I  had  only  to  look  at 


368  FATA  MORGANA 

the  beaming  faces  to  see  that  they  expected  Yvonne  to 
say  'I  accept') — 'the  marriage  would  overwhelm  us  all 
with  joy;  but  there  is  some  one — one  only — who  would 
have  too  great  pain  from  it.  I  am  not  free— I  have 
given  my  word  to  another!' 

"I  wish  you  had  been  there,  grandma,  to  judge  of 
the  consternation  caused  by  the  word  '  another ' !  Mme. 
de  Grojean  arose,  pale  as  death. 

"  'Yvonne,  you  have  given  your  word  to  another? 
Without  your  mother  knowing  it  ?  To  whom  ?  Answer ! ' 

"  'To  my  cousin  Henri,'  answered  Yvonne. 

"Mme.  de  Grojean  breathed  again:  'To  your  cousin 
Henri!  But  he  is  only  a  child-sweetheart,  my  dear 
daughter;  every  one  has  that  in  her  life.  Now  you 
must  act  like  a  woman.  That  was  not  in  earnest. 
Henri  will  give  you  back  your  word ! ' 

"  'But  I  shall  not  take  it  back!'  said  Yvonne. 

"  'What  are  you  thinking  of!  Your  cousin  Henri 
— nothing  but  an  employee  at  the  Rigois  bank,  with  no 
substantial  situation  and  with  no  future;  do  you  com- 
pare him  with  Monsieur  Rowrer,  for  whom,  besides,  you 
have  a  sentiment?  Avow  it! — it  is  nothing  to  blush  for.' 

"  'I  do  not  blush  for  it,'  Yvonne  said;  'but  I  have 
a  sentiment  for  Henri  also;  and,  moreover,  he  has  my 
word.  If  he  is  not  rich,  he  will  work.  Monsieur  Rowrer 
is  too  rich !  What  an  opinion  Henri  would  have  of  me 
if  he  thought  I  would  marry  another  just  because  he  is 
worth  millions,  and  would  abandon  him  because  he 
is  poor!  Surely  he  would  believe  so!  I  would  never 
dare  look  him  in  the  face.  Henri  counts  on  me, — I 
shall  be  his  wife!'  " 


UA  TRUE  HEART  LOVES  BUT  ONCE"    369 

"Oh,  brave  little  Yvonne!"  said  grandma.  "Did  she 
say  that?" 

"Yes,  grandma,  she  said  that;  and  she  was  radiant 
with  beauty  as  she  said  it,  I  can  assure  you.  'My  dear 
Ethel,'  she  told  me  afterward,  'you  see  there  is  nothing 
to  wound  Monsieur  Rowrer's  self-love.  Tell  him  I  have 
the  greatest  esteem  for  him,  and  would  have  been  so  glad 
to  call  you  my  sister,  Ethel.  But  what  would  you  have 
done  in  my  place?' 

"Yvonne  must  have  seen  in  my  looks  how  deeply  I 
was  moved,  and  how  much  I  admired  her." 

"What  about  the  family  council— what  did  it  say?" 
grandma  asked. 

"  'Is  that  your  final  decision?'  Mme.  de  Grojean  de- 
manded of  Yvonne. 

"  'It  is  my  final  decision,'  said  Yvonne. 

"'Come,  then,  Yvonne,  and  be  happy!'  and  the 
mother  pressed  her  to  her  bosom." 

"But  the  grandmother— that  terrible  grand 'mere?" 

"Grand 'mere  kissed  Yvonne  on  the  forehead,  and 
said  to  her,  'You  've  done  well,  my  child,' — and  then  I 
came  away.  That  is  all,  grandma." 

The  evening  was  creeping  over  the  forest.  The  high 
clumps  of  trees  stood  out  in  somber  masses  against  the 
deep  sky.  Ethel  and  grandma  had  completely  forgot- 
ten the  hunt;  but  the  sound  of  the  horns  drew  near. 
The  exhausted  doe  was  returning,  followed  close  by  the 
hounds. 

"Let  us  go  away;  the  dew  is  falling,"  grandma  said 
pensively.  "Let  us  go  back  to  the  breaks;  the  hunters 
will  soon  be  here." 


370  FATA  MORGANA 

''Go  on  alone,  grandma;  I  will  wait  for  them  here. 
I  shall  return  to  the  chateau  on  horseback. ' ' 

Ethel  remained  on  the  stone  bench.  When  she  sep- 
arated herself  from  the  hunt  the  branch  of  a  tree  in 
a  narrow  alley  had  ruffled  her  hair.  She  took  off  her 
hat,  to  put  it  in  order.  She  was  just  finishing,  when 
a  hunter,  who  had  doubtless  left  his  horse  at  the  ren- 
dezvous and  seemed  to  be  looking  for  some  one,  crossed 
the  glade  and  passed  before  her. 

' '  Monsieur  Phil ! ' '  Ethel  said,  rising. 

Phil  turned  his  head  toward  her.  Ethel  stood  up- 
right in  the  ruined  colonnade.  Her  blond  hair  shone 
bright  against  the  dark  background  of  ivy-covered  rock. 
With  her  black  gown,  she  might  have  been  a  nymph  in 
mourning,  staying  some  passing  wanderer,  in  the  depths 
of  a  sacred  grove. 

Phil  was  dazzled.  He  knew  he  should  find  her  at  this 
place,  for  he  had  seen  her  leave  the  hunt  near  the  spot 
of  the  hallali.  He  wished  to  see  Ethel.  He  had  gathered 
in  haste  a  nosegay  of  wild  flowers  to  offer  her.  Miss 
Rowrer  was  to  see  that  he  had  come  back  for  her, — that 
he  had  gathered  the  flowers  for  her,  that  he  was  think- 
ing of  her.  She  might,  too,  see  his  emotion  when  he 
should  offer  his  simple  gift.  She  would  thank  him.  He 
would  say  he  knew  not  what, — but  she  would  know !  He 
had  sworn  to  himself  to  act ;  the  time  had  come.  Nature 
herself  pushed  him  forward.  There  was  gladness  in 
this  beautiful  evening.  The  wind  stirred  the  lofty  trees 
and  Phil  listened  to  the  hunting-horn  as  the  soldier 
sharpens  his  courage  by  the  rolling  of  the  drums.  He 


;  Ethel  stood  upright  in  the  ruined  colonnade ' 


"A  TRUE  HEART  LOVES  BUT  ONCE"    373 

advanced  respectfully  toward  Ethel,  hiding  the  flowers 
with  which  he  wished  to  surprise  her. 

"You  have  something  on  your  mind,  Monsieur  Phil," 
Ethel  said. 

"Is  it  as  plain  as  that?"  Phil  asked,  in  an  uncertain 
voice. 

Like  a  true  lover,  he  thought  he  could  already  read 
in  her  face  the  feelings  which  moved  himself.  He  was 
almost  sorry  to  have  come.  He  would  have  been  glad 
to  escape,  and  he  tried  to  hide  his  trouble  by  indifferent 
remarks. 

"You,  Miss  Rowrer,  are  radiant  this  evening." 

"It  is  because  I  am  so  happy,  Monsieur  Phil.  Oh,  so 
happy!" 

"The  evening  is  so  fine,"  Phil  began;  "you— 

"I  saw  yesterday  something  finer  and  sweeter  than 
all  that,"  Ethel  interrupted,  with  a  gesture  which  took 
in  the  forest  and  the  sumptuous  sky.  "I  saw  some  one 
yesterday  repulse  with  disdain  a  fortune,  to  remain 
faithful  to  a  childhood  love." 

Phil  stopped  short. 

"It  was  a  young  girl,"  Ethel  went  on,  slowly,  as  if 
to  communicate  to  him  her  own  conviction, — "a  young 
girl  who  believes  in  the  sanctity  of  promises  made  when 
one  is  young,  when  the  heart  is  as  clear  as  the  sky,— a 
young  girl  who  believes  in  loyalty  to  her  word  once 
given,  and  to  oaths  exchanged  later,  when  she  knew 
what  she  was  doing— at  the  age  when  one  still  sees  in 
love  only  love  itself." 

"It  might  be  for  me  and  Helia!"  Phil  thought. 
"Yet,  she  knows  nothing  about  it." 


374  FATA  MORGANA 

"That  is  why  I  look  radiant,"  Ethel  continued.  "Ah, 
it  refreshes  me  after  what  we  see  so  often,— vile  hearts 
and  cowardly  consciences." 

"This  is  my  punishment,"  thought  Phil. 

In  full  daylight,  Ethel  would  certainly  have  noticed 
his  fearful  pallor.  He  stammered  out:  "One  is  not 
always  master  of  his  own  heart!" 

"A  true  heart,"  replied  Ethel,  "loves  but  once. 
There  are  not  different  oaths  for  each  different  age  of 
life." 

All  this  was  a  lightning-flash  to  Phil's  soul.  Ethel 
had  never  seemed  more  friendly  to  him,  and  she  was 
radiant  and  gay.  But  he  no  longer  thought  of  her. 
He  was  face  to  face  with  himself. 

"Yet,  in  spite  of  one's  self,"  Phil  answered,  in  a 
hesitating  voice,  "the  sacrifice  of  first  love  may  be  made 
to  a  later  one— it  sometimes  happens." 

"It  happens  every  day,"  said  Ethel;  "money  talks!" 

Phil  let  his  nosegay  of  wild-flowers  fall  behind  him 
to  the  ground. 

"I  won't  keep  you,  Monsieur  Phil,"  she  said,  believing 
that  she  was  preventing  him  from  taking  part  in  the 
hallali.  "Go,  now!"  she  continued  pleasantly,  "they  're 
only  waiting  for  you  to  cut  the  doe's  throat — listen, 
they  're  sounding  the  death!" 

Indeed,  the  forest  near  them  was  full  of  a  rising 
tumult;  lackeys  were  carrying  torches;  cries  and  calls 
were  heard,  and  the  barking  of  the  hounds  grew  savage. 
The  poor  doe  had  come  back  to  her  sleeping-place  to  die. 
There  was  despair  in  her  gasp;  and  the  flaring  horns 
set  up  the  triumphal  song  of  the  hallali. 


"A  TRUE  HEART  LOVES  BUT  ONCE"    375 

"  Really,  Phil,  I  do  not  wish  to  deprive  you  of  such 
pleasure.  Go.  But  you  had  something  in  your  hand 
just  now — some  flowers,  I  think.  Put  them  on  this 
bench.  You  will  find  them  when  you  return." 

"I  have  nothing,  Miss  Ethel,"  Phil  answered,  show- 
ing his  empty  hands. 

Every  word  Ethel  had  said  wounded  him  cruelly, 
though  he  felt  sure  she  knew  nothing  of  his  relations 
with  Helia.  It  seemed  to  him  they  applied  to  his  own 
troubles.  They  thrilled  him  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

He  plunged  into  the  night  of  the  forest,  toward  the 
blood-red  glow  lighting  up  the  slaughter. 


PART  IV 
CONSCIENCE 


CHAPTER  I 

ON    THE    BLUE    SEA 

BLUE  sea — a  blue  sky.  The  yacht  was  sailing 
under  deep  azure,  reflected  back  by  calm  waters. 
It  was  unlike  the  jolts  and  staccato  teuf-teuf  of 
the  automobile ;  it  was  gentle  as  the  swinging  of  a  bal- 
loon in  the  open  heavens.  The  furrow  of  foam  behind 
the  yacht  was  like  a  trail  of  clouds. 

On  the  promenade-deck,  in  the  shade  of  the  big  deck- 
house, grandma,  Ethel,  and  Will  were  taking  the  air, 
stretched  out  in  bamboo  chairs.  Through  the  open  door 
books  and  newspapers  could  be  seen  on  the  table,  and 
in  the  corners  of  the  salon  baskets  of  beautiful  flowers 
were  disposed.  The  sea  breeze  mingled  with  the  smell 
of  roses.  Near  the  yacht's  prow  a  band  was  playing 
softly.  Among  the  crew  there  were  musicians  by  trade, 
— old  sailors  of  the  navy  bands.  They  were  training 
themselves  for  gala-days  later  on— in  Sicily,  in  Greece, 
in  Morgania.  Their  low  notes  reached  the  group  at 
the  stern  like  a  murmur  of  distant  voices.  Ethel  looked 
abstractedly  across  the  sea  to  the  horizon.  She  was 
thinking  of  the  country  she  had  left  behind— of  the 
mists  and  gardens  where  the  leaves  fall  in  autumn; 
of  the  countries  she  was  yet  to  see,  with  their  blue  ar- 
379 


380  FATA  MORGANA 

chipelagos,  whose  white  minarets  seem  milky  pearls  set 
in  sapphire. 

She  was  almost  overwhelmed  with  remembrances.  She 
thought  of  those  shores  where  poets  sang  of  gods  and 
heroes;  of  that  sea  which  had  reflected,  in  turn,  fable 
and  faith,  where  the  galley  of  St.  Paul  crossed  the 
meandering  track  of  Ulysses's  bark.  She  found  exqui- 
site delight  in  this  legendary  past.  She  fancied  to  her- 
self Cleopatra  and  Dido  and  Morgana,  queens  who  were 
all  but  goddesses,  and  the  Roman  matrons,  borne  across 
the  waves  to  the  sound  of  lutes,  with  their  jesters  and 
their  scribes.  At  her  side,  Will  and  grandma  were 
chatting  quietly. 

"You  are  a  good  boy,"  grandma  said.  "I  am  glad 
you  got  my  telegram  in  time  to  put  an  elevator  in  the 
yacht;— perhaps  the  reason  I  like  new  things  is  because 
I  am  growing  old." 

"Not  at  all,  grandma,"  interrupted  Ethel.  "What 
is  stupider  than  to  go  climbing  up-stairs?  It  is  the 
least  esthetic  of  all  movements." 

"That  was  my  idea!"  said  grandma. 

"And  the  wireless  telegraph  was  mine,"  said  Will. 

Will  had  himself  supervised  the  building  of  his  yacht, 
to  make  it  a  model  of  its  type.  He  deserved  a  Nobel 
prize  for  the  practical  way  in  which  he  had  foreseen 
everything.  But  its  nautical  qualities,  and  the  rigidity 
of  its  double  steel  shell  were  as  nothing  in  comparison 
with  its  interior  comfort. 

The  yacht  could  have  held  two  hundred  passengers, 
and  it  accommodated  only  ten.  Its  furnishings  and 
arrangements  were  sumptuous.  The  deck-house  was  a 


ON  THE  BLUE  SEA  381 

hundred  feet  long.  In  front  were  a  card-room  and  the 
apartments  of  the  captain;  all  the  rest  was  taken  for 
great  cabins,  each  with  its  boudoir  and  bath-room. 

Through  the  music-room,  where  the  breath  of  the 
open  sea  brought  to  grandma,  Ethel,  and  Will  the  smell 
of  the  roses,  they  would  go  down  to  the  great  hall  wains- 
coted in  unvarnished  cedar,  which  framed  decorative 
panels.  Farther  on  in  the  suite  of  rooms  was  the  library, 
with  its  wide,  red-leather  sofas.  Above  the  shelves 
twelve  caryatids,  in  yellow  marble,  upheld  the  plinth. 
There  were  radiators  for  heat  and  ventilators  for  cool- 
ness, with  telephones  and  electric  buttons  everywhere. 
Their  bells  gave  a  thrill  of  life  from  end  to  end  of  the 
yacht. 

Ethel  was  on  the  point  of  ringing  for  her  maid,  when 
Suzanne  appeared.  She  brought  the  plaids,  fearing  the 
evening  freshness  might  incommode  Mme.  Rowrer  or 
Miss  Rowrer. 

' '  Suzanne, ' '  Ethel  said,  while  she  was  putting  a  plaid 
over  her  shoulders,  "I  don't  see  Monsieur  Phil.  Per- 
haps he  is  showing  the  yacht  to  Mademoiselle  Helia. ' ' 

"No;  Monsieur  Phil  is  not  showing  the  yacht.  Mon- 
sieur Phil  is  giving  a  lemon  to  M.  Caracal  to  suck.  M. 
Caracal  suffers  martyrdom.  The  sighs  of  M.  Caracal 
rend  one's  heart.  Mademoiselle  Helia  is  in  her  cabin, 
reading." 

Suzanne,  since  she  had  become  a  soubrette,  said  "Ma- 
demoiselle" when  she  spoke  of  Helia.  She  had  perfect 
tact;  she  was  the  ideal  soubrette.  She  had  accepted 
eagerly  Ethel's  offer  to  accompany  her  to  Morgania. 

The  life  she  was  leading  with  Perbaccho  wearied  her; 
20 


382  FATA  MORGANA 

and  then,  to  hear  Poufaille  always  repeating  the  same 
thing  over, — to  be  always  knocking  on  the  same  skull 
at  the  same  hours, — she  was  tired  of  it  all. 

Will  at  first  intended  to  take  Poufaille  along  to  help 
the  cook,  but  he  prudently  gave  up  the  project  when 
he  heard  Poufaille  explaining  his  ideas  on  pig's- rump 
and  garlic,  and  goat's-milk  cheese.  So  Suzanne  not 
only  escaped  from  Poufaille  for  the  present,  but  she 
served  Miss  Rowrer,  whom  she  adored;  and,  moreover, 
she  followed  Helia  and  Phil.  She  guessed  that  some- 
thing had  lately  passed  between  them.  She  was  de- 
voured by  curiosity  to  know  how  the  romance  would  end. 
Was  it  possible  that  Phil,  who  formerly  had  been  so  good 
and  upright,  could  have  changed  to  such  a  degree?  A 
hundred  times  over  she  had  been  called  to  be  a  witness 
to  his  love  and  a  confidante  of  his  oaths.  Ah,  men, 
men !  for  them  the  broomstick — et  die  done! 

"Tell  me,"  Ethel  said,  "is  Mademoiselle  Helia  glad, 
now  that  she  has  come  ?  I  had  Monsieur  Phil  invite  her, 
and  she  refused  at  first.  I  had  to  insist  myself,  and 
almost  get  angry,  to  make  her  accept. ' ' 

' '  Oh,  yes,  Mademoiselle  Helia  is  very  glad ! ' '  and  Su- 
zanne, having  arranged  the  plaids,  lifted  to  Miss  Rowrer 
eyes  in  which  she  might  have  read  infinite  gratitude  for 
so  much  goodness. 

"I  need  you,  Helia,"  Ethel  had  urged;  "you  know 
it  well !  I  count  on  you  for  my  lessons  in  physical  cul- 
ture, and  you  know  I  've  got  it  in  my  head  to  take  you 
to  my  father's  university.  There  are  charming  young 
girls  there,  and  you  will  teach  them  how  to  be  strong 
and  beautiful.  Besides,  the  voyage  will  do  so  much 
good  to  Sceurette.  Come — you  '11  be  at  home!" 


ON  THE  BLUE  SEA  383 

Helia  had  accepted.  To  travel  with  Phil  would  be  to 
lengthen  her  torture;  but,  at  least,  she  would  see 
him. 

At  first,  amid  all  these  marble  statues  and  bronze 
reliefs,  Helia  felt  herself  intimidated,  habituated  as 
she  was  to  the  coarsely  painted  scene-canvases  and 
papier-mache  bronzes.  But  Ethel  treated  her  as  an 
equal— Ethel,  who  had  the  art  to  be  respected  without 
being  unapproachable. 

"Ask  them  to  come  up,"  Ethel  said  to  Suzanne. 
"It  's  the  finest  hour  of  the  day." 

The  sea  was  mild.  Great  clouds  were  climbing  above 
the  horizon,  while  an  enormous  sun  was  slowly  setting 
in  splendor  of  molten  gold. 

"The  duke  was  right,"  Ethel  said  to  Will.  "From 
the  point  of  view  of  Paris  the  legend  of  Morgana  might 
seem  ridiculous,  but  here,  in  the  grandeur  of  such  scene- 
setting,  even  the  supernatural  seems  normal.  How  far 
away  are  the  ant-hills  of  Paris  and  London !  Only  think 
how  somewhere  people  are  agitating  themselves  in  fog 
and  smoke,  while  we  are  sailing  straight  for  dreamland 
and— isn't  it  curious?— a  duchy  with  sorceresses  and 
fairies  in  its  history,  where  legends  a  thousand  years  old 
still  move  the  people.  I  wish  to  believe  in  it — I  wish  to 
see  the  return  of  Morgana ! ' ' 

"  Keep  thy  flight  to  the  West,  bold  sailor ; 
The  land  thou  seekest  shall  arise, 
Even  though  it  existed  not, 
From  the  depths  of  the  waves  to  welcome  thee." 

It  was  Phil,  who  arrived  ahead  of  Caracal.  He  had 
heard  Ethel,  and  capped  her  thought  with  verses  from 
Schiller. 


384  FATA  MORGANA 

"How  is  your  patient,  Monsieur  Phil?"  asked  Ethel; 
"how  is  M.  Caracal?  Seasickness  is  a  sad  affair;  even 
animals  suffer  from  it — the  ox,  the  ass,  the  hog,  the 
monkey — ' ' 

"And  especially  man,"  said  Caracal,  following  Phil. 

Caracal  thanked  Miss  Rowrer.  He  was  better.  The 
responsibility  of  the  old  French  politeness  weighed  on 
Caracal.  He  went  through  his  most  graceful  manners, 
lifting  his  little  finger  in  the  air,  and  smiling  and 
scraping  his  foot.  And  then — crac!  a  diving  bow,  with 
his  lip  turned  up,  to  kiss  one's  hand— or  to  bite  it. 

He  wore  a  faultless  suit,  and  an  artistic  cravat,  which 
the  wind  swelled  out  like  a  banner.  He  redoubled  his 
politeness  to  grandma,  a  sure  means,  in  his  mind,  to  win 
her  granddaughter.  He  hummed  to  himself  a  music- 
hall  refrain: 

"  Pour  avoir  la  fille 
Aimable  et  gentille, 
C'est  a  la  maman 
Qu'il  faut  d'abord  faire  des  compliments  !  " 

("To  gain  the  daughter, 

Sweet  and  pretty, 
To  the  old  mother 
Sing  your  ditty !  ") 

He  rhymed  sonnets  to  Miss  Rowrer,  and  trotted  out 
his  erudition,  working  up  his  Baedeker  in  his  cabin,  and 
astonishing  every  one  by  his  qualifications  as  a  cicerone. 

"M.  Caracal  would  make  an  ideal  courier,"  thought 
grandma. 

Caracal,  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye,  glanced  at  the 
books  on  the  salon  table.  "The  House  of  Glass,"  which 


ON   THE  BLUE  SEA  385 

had  just  appeared  before  their  departure,  lay,  uncut, 
under  a  pile  of  magazines.  Caracal  was  a  little  an- 
noyed; but,  with  an  author's  pride,  he  hesitated  to  call 
Miss  Rowrer's  attention  again  to  his  own  novel. 

"A  wireless  for  Miss  Rowrer."  The  captain's  boy 
approached,  with  his  cap  off  and  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

"Where  does  it  come  from?"  Ethel  asked. 

"From  a  ship  off  there." 

Ethel  instinctively  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  mast,  which 
seemed  to  be  throwing  out  its  feelers  into  space.  Then 
she  opened  the  paper  and  read: 

Captain  Far  East  en  route  New  York,  wishes  good  journey  to 
Captain  Columbia.  R.  K.  Rowrer's  orders  to  put  himself  at  dispo- 
sition of  yacht.  Bad  news  from  Morgania — land  excursions  danger- 
ous. Any  message  for  New  York. 

Ethel  arose.  One  point  appeared  on  the  horizon  and 
then  another. 

"It  's  the  Far  East  and  the  Far  West/'  said  Will. 
"They  've  been  carrying  bridge  iron  to  Africa  for  the 
Cape-to-Cairo  railway,  and  machinery  for  the  Nyanza 
ferry-boat  company.  They  belong  to  pa. ' ' 

"Really!"  said  Ethel,  looking  at  the  two  ships  com- 
ing into  sight  along  the  horizon. 

"Boy!"  she  called,  giving  him  the  answer: 

Sailing  straight  for  Morgania— danger  adds  to  attraction.  Our 
love  to  dear  old  pa  ! 

Ethel,  with  her  sea-glass,  could  observe  the  ships  sa- 
luting the  yacht;  the  flags  tumbled  at  the  mizzen. 


386  FATA   MORGANA 

She  felt  a  thrill  of  pride.  Roman  matrons  and 
Cleopatras  and  Uidos,  slowly  dragged  over  the  sea 
by  their  chained  galley-slaves,  what  were  they  beside 
her?  How  much  better  it  was  to  live  nowadays! 
She  felt  herself  more  powerful  than  they  had  ever 
been.  Space  seemed  bringing  her  the  salutes  of  the 
East  and  of  the  distant  West.  She  remained  stand- 
ing until  the  ships  were  lost  to  sight  in  the  evening 
mists. 

They  were  cruising  along  the  Italian  coast,  visiting 
now  one  spot  and  now  another.  Sometimes  there  were 
cool  streets  bordered  with  palaces  whose  windows  were 
without  glass.  The  presence  of  the  yachting-party  drew 
swarms  of  ragazzi,  boys  and  girls,  more  importunate 
than  Jersey  mosquitos,  and  harassing  them  for  baiocchi 
and  madonne. 

Again,  there  were  islands  which  from  afar  were 
like  bouquets  of  flowers,  and  from  near  smelled  of 
cheese  and  fried  fish  and  garlic.  Capri,  with  the  sea 
like  a  liquid  sky  at  its  feet,  lifted  its  houses  along  ter- 
races like  shelves.  It  was  nothing  but  a  going  up  and 
coming  down. 

"This  is  a  perpendicular  country,"  was  Ethel's  obser- 
vation. ' '  We  are  like  flies  walking  along  a  wall. ' ' 

On  the  days  when  there  was  no  climbing  of  the 
islands  that  sink  abruptly  to  the  sea,  the  party  could 
look  at  them  from  the  deck  or  the  library,  as  they 
passed.  Ethel  took  the  opportunity  for  her  physical 
training,  or  put  herself  out  of  breath  on  a  stationary 
bicycle,  like  those  on  which  the  travelers  on  the  trans- 
Siberian  line  get  the  rust  from  their  legs. 


ON   THE   BLUE   SEA  387 

"You  '11  tire  yourself,  Miss  Rowrer,"  Helia  said  to 
her,  when  she  saw  what  ardor  she  displayed. 

"No,  no!"  said  Ethel,  "just  show  me  how  to  do  it." 

Helia  went  through  a  few  movements  with  consum- 
mate ease.  There  was  no  getting  out  of  breath,  no 
swelling  of  veins— neck  and  shoulders  and  arms  were 
smooth  as  marble;  for  exercise  only  developed  in  her 
the  exquisite  purity  of  her  form.  t 

"Oh,  Helia!"  Ethel  added,  "show  me  how  I  can  have 
a  neck  and  shoulders  and  arms  like  yours. ' ' 

During  these  short  training  lessons  her  friendship 
for  Helia  grew;  and  it  is  possible  Ethel's  only  ambi- 
tion was  to  have  arms  like  Helia.  But  it  was  not  such 
an  ambition  which  the  press  had  been  attributing  to 
her  for  some  time  back.  For  the  newspapers  were  al- 
ways talking  about  her.  When  the  yacht  entered  the 
smallest  port,  it  drew  more  attention  than  a  war 
squadron.  The  cabbage-leaf  papers  of  Calabria  and 
Sicily  all  had  something  to  say  of  Miss  Rowrer.  They 
spoke  of  her  as  a  wild  woman,  because  she  had  bought 
and  saved  from  death  the  dog  whom  the  natives  were 
asphyxiating,  in  honor  of  foreign  tourists,  amid  the 
noxious  gases  of  a  sulphur  grotto.  Then  they  had  a 
story  of  some  hermit  on  a  cliff,  whom  she  wished,  so 
it  seemed,  to  take  to  Chicago  to  have  him  bless  her 
father's  stock-yard  from  the  top  of  a  sky-scraper! 

"What  fools!"  said  Will.  "They  'd  do  better  to 
put  glass  in  their  windows  and  cultivate  their  nespoli 
and  pomidoro  than  lose  their  time  in  such  silliness. 
It  's  true  that  time  is  not  worth  much  in  a  country 
where  Stromboli  and  Vesuvius  take  the  place  of  our 


388  FATA  MORGANA 

Pittsburgs  and  Homesteads — where  there  's  nothing 
smoking  on  the  horizon  except  some  old  volcano!" 

Yet  the  yachting-party  found  pleasure  in  the  halts 
when,  for  a  change,  they  went  to  dine  at  the  hotels.  The 
rushing  down-stairs  of  the  clerks  and  porters  and 
maitres-d 'hotel,  who  got  suddenly  into  rank  and  waited 
for  their  orders,  amused  them.  For  the  landlords  their 
landing  was  a  signal  to  make  all  the  hay  they  could 
while  the  sun  was  shining. 

Not  the  cabbage-leaf  papers  alone,  but  the  great  jour- 
nals also,  printed  Ethel's  name.  At  least,  she  concluded 
this  must  be  the  case  one  day  when  she  remained  on  board 
while  Will  and  the  others  visited  the  museum  at  Pa- 
lermo. Ethel  had  letters  to  write  and  sat  herself  down 
near  the  music-room  under  an  awning.  The  yacht  was 
moored  beside  a  great  steamer  for  tourists.  Without 
being  seen  she  could  hear,  above  her  head,  the  talk  of 
these  cosmopolitan  people,  familiar  with  the  Pyramids 
and  the  Acropolis,  the  Smyrna  bazaars  and  Monte 
Carlo.  The  whole  international  swarm  knew  the  Co- 
lumbia by  name.  On  the  steamer  they  were  talking 
travel  and  trade  and  the  weather.  Ethel  heard  her 
name  pronounced  along  with  the  rest.  They  were  dis- 
cussing her  probable  marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Mor- 
gania — "a  glorious  name  in  Europe."  "Do  you  know 
what  Chartered  is  quoted  at  on  the  Stock  Exchange?" 
"They  '11  be  a  magnificent  couple!"  "The  big  Pyra- 
mid is  seven  hundred  feet  less  than  the  Eiffel  Tower." 
"She  'd  be  a  charming  duchess!"  "The  best  chance 
Morgania  ever  had ! ' ' 

Then  all  the  voices  were  lost  in  the  siren's  wailing, 


;  She  dreamed  uiider  a  sky  studded  with  stars  " 


ON  THE  BLUE  SEA  391 

long  drawn  out.  The  steamer  shook  itself  gently,  and 
issued  from  the  port,  leaving  Ethel  in  a  reverie. 

' '  Reigning  duchess !  Queen  of  Antioch !  Lady  Knight 
of  Malta!"  All  this— she  acknowledged  it  to  herself— 
had  already  passed  through  her  brain.  It  had  even 
amused  her  to  see  how  timid  the  duke  was  in  her  pres- 
ence. She  had  to  say  but  a  word,— not  even  that,— 
merely  to  encourage  him  with  a  smile,  to  see  him  at  her 
feet.  But  the  newspapers  were  in  too  great  a  hurry. 
They  spoke  of  something  that  was  not  yet  decided.  She 
would  see;  she  had  never  so  well  appreciated  her  power 
as  since  her  departure  from  Marseilles.  Everybody  in 
the  world  seemed  to  know  her.  True  enough,  across  the 
Red  Sea  and  India  and  Japan, — everywhere,  to  the  other 
side  of  the  earth,  as  far  as  'Frisco,  it  would  have  been 
just  the  same. 

The  voyage  continued  tranquilly.  Villages  at  the 
foot  of  the  rugged  Calabrian  cliffs  saw  the  yacht  pass- 
ing by,  white  upon  the  blue  sea,  or  at  night  shining  with 
lights  like  a  meteor. 

At  that  hour,  most  of  all  after  dinner,  it  was  pleas- 
ant on  the  bridge.  Will  walked  backward  and  forward, 
and  smoked  his  cigar.  Grandma,  half  asleep,  looked  at 
the  sea,  which  reminded  her  of  her  Western  prairies. 
At  her  side,  to  give  her  pleasure,  Phil  picked  his  banjo. 
Caracal  was  bored ;  he  had  verified  the  fact  that  no  one 
had  yet  opened  his  book. 

Ethel  had  other  things  to  do.  Stretched  out  in  her 
bamboo  chair,  she  dreamed  under  a  sky  studded  with 
stars. 


CHAPTER   II 
ETHEL'S  VICTORY 

PHIL,  ever  since  the  day  of  the  hunt,  had  also  been 
living  in  a  dream. 
He  was  sure  that  Ethel  knew  nothing  of  his 
past.  He  even  suspected  the  events  to  which  she  had  al- 
luded, for  he  knew  Will 's  story  well.  Moreover,  she  had 
since  then  shown  herself  more  amiable  than  ever  to  him. 
He  might  have  thought  himself  more  encouraged  than 
ever  to  pay  her  court  and  to  forget  Helia  more  and 
more.  But  just  the  contrary  happened.  Within  him- 
self he  felt  a  passion  storm  going  on,  with  sudden  illu- 
mination of  vivid  lightning  flashes.  Then  all  sank 
back  into  shadow. 

He  no  longer  dared  look  Helia  in  the  face.  Under 
Ethel's  clear  eyes  his  conscience  had  awakened. 

One  evening,  weary  of  the  ideas  that  beset  him,  Phil 
had  thrown  himself  on  a  sofa  in  the  music-room,  when 
he  saw  Ethel  enter,  seat  herself,  and  absently  take  up 
a  book  which  chanced  to  be  lying  there.  She  cut  one 
page  and  looked  through  it,  two  pages,  ten  pages. 
Then,  suddenly,  she  arose  angrily.  Phil  was  as- 
tounded. 

"Do  you  understand?"  Ethel  asked  him.    "He  dares 


ETHEL'S  VICTORY  393 

to  offer  me  this  filthy  book  with  the  author's  compli- 
ments !  I  have  only  read  a  few  lines,  and  it  nauseates 
me." 

"Of  what  book  are  you  speaking,  Miss  Rowrer?" 
Phil  asked. 

"Of  'The  House  of  Glass,'  which  Caracal  has  dared 
to  offer  me."  And  Ethel  showed  Phil  the  volume,  with 
its  modern-style  cover  decorated  by  creeping  plants  and 
monkeys'  tails. 

"Would  you  believe  it?"  Ethel  continued.  "The 
poor  fool  is  trying  to  be  gallant  with  me.  Every  day 
he  composes  a  sonnet  in  my  honor.  There  's  no  great 
harm  in  that ;  but  since  he  is  the  author  of  '  The  House 
of  Glass,'  it  has  another  meaning.  Here,  Phil,  take  the 
book,  I  beg  of  you,  and  throw  it  overboard.  But,  wait 
a  minute,  we  '11  throw  to-day's  sonnet  with  it.  Only 
give  me  time  to  open  the  envelop — you  '11  see  how  gro- 
tesque it  is. ' ' 

Ethel  opened  the  envelop,  but  she  had  scarcely 
glanced  through  the  letter  it  contained  when  she  grew 
pale  with  wrath  and  pride. 

"What  an  outrage!"  she  exclaimed,  in  her  fury. 
"See,  Phil,  Caracal  made  a  mistake  in  addressing  his 
envelop.  He  has  sent  the  sonnet  on  to  Paris  and  put 
here,  instead  of  it,,  a  letter  to  Vieillecloche.  Richard 
the  Lion-hearted!  Those  attacks  which  vexed  me  so, 
— they  came  from  him.  He  has  a  family  arrangement 
for  it  with  Vieillecloche.  Look,  Phil,  read,  read !  What 
do  you  think  of  that?  Is  it  not  infamous?  He  attacks 
us  for  pay ! ' ' 

Phil  was  indignant.    The  letter  left  no  possible  doubt. 


394  FATA  MORGANA 

He  already  could  see  Caracal  disembarked  in  a  hurry 
at  the  first  port,  and  going  down  the  gangway  crushed 
by  his  shame. 

"But  he  also  attacked  you  once,  Phil.  How  is  it  you 
did  n't  pull  his  ears?" 

"That  was  my  great  desire!"  answered  Phil. 

"But  you  did  not  do  it!" 

"Let  me  tell  you — 

"You  did  not  do  it!" 

Phil,  without  changing  a  detail,  told  the  whole  story 
—the  rage  which  had  pushed  him  on  to  hunt  for  Cara- 
cal, and  his  feelings  at  sight  of  the  poor  creature  a  prey 
to  his  own  dreams,  with  anguish  on  his  tear-stained 
face. 

"That  is  why  I  did  not  do  it,  Miss  Rowrer,"  said  Phil. 

"  Ah ! "  Ethel  exclaimed,  as  she  looked  at  Phil. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Throw  book  and  letter  into  the  sea,"  Ethel  con- 
cluded. "And,  I  beseech  you,  not  a  word  of  all  this 
to  any  one!" 

Phil  went  away,  and  Ethel  remained  alone.  Within 
her  there  was  something  like  a  hurricane.  What !  those 
men,  those  man-monkeys  who  had  been  harassing  her 
ever  since  she  came  to  Paris,— it  was  all  to  make  her 
buy  their  silence.  How  infamous!  It  humiliated  her 
to  see  such  obscure  names  mixed  up  with  her  life.  And 
one  of  them  was  under  obligations  to  her,  living  under 
her  roof  and  sitting  at  her  table !  And  it  was  he  who 
offered  her  a  book  which  might  have  been  written  by 
a  drunken  ape !  Ah !  if  she  had  only  known  of  his 
special  talents,  he  would  not  be  there  now— that  public 


1  She  arose  augrily  " 


ETHEL'S  VICTORY  397 

malefactor,  that  little  round-shouldered  wretch,  who 
dared  to  write  her  sonnets !  What  should  she  do  with 
Caracal?  Abandon  him  on  a  desert  island?  Or  simply 
throw  him  into  the  water?  No,  not  that.  Hang  him  to 
the  mast  like  a  pirate?  Come,  now — she  would  not 
trouble  her  brain  hunting  condign  punishments  for  him. 
She  left  the  music-room,  and  walked  on  the  deck;  and 
at  last,  as  if  to  wind  up  her  long  monologue  with  her- 
self, she  concluded:  "Caracal  is  crazy!" 

This  idea,  which  put  anger  to  one  side  and  left  room 
for  pity,  restored  to  Ethel  her  self-possession.  "I  will 
deal  with  him  later  on,"  she  said. 

The  immense  distance  between  herself  and  such  a 
man  appeared  to  her  all  at  once.  Caracal  seemed  very 
little  to  her.  And  what  moral  wretchedness!  All  his 
energy  was  aimed  at  obtaining  money,  and  he  did  not 
even  succeed !  And  how  punished  he  would '  be  some 
day,  when  he  should  see  his  bad  actions  taking  root  and 
growing,  and  their  poison  doing  its  work. 

Could  she  even  understand  the  case?  Who  could 
ever  know  the  extreme  need,  the  passions  which  urge 
on  a  man  like  Caracal?  Perhaps  his  was  not  consum- 
mate vice ;  perhaps  he  would  repent  some  day.  He  was 
poor  and  alone,  and  she  was  powerful  and  rich,  and 
perhaps  might  be  a  reigning  duchess  to-morrow— if  she 
would  only  say  yes  with  a  nod.  Yet  here  she  was  al- 
lowing herself  to  be  embittered  by  the  snarling  of  a 
poor  fool.  A  queen,  and  she  could  not  pardon !  Phil 
had  been  more  generous  and  humane  than  she ! 

She  made  a  great  effort  to  conquer  her  remorseless 
attitude — and  won. 


CHAPTER   III 

A  CASTLE  OF  THE  ADRIATIC 

WHEN  the  yacht  moored  in  front  of  the  ducal 
castle  of  Morgania,  Morgana  was  surely  ab- 
sent, for  no  fantastic  mirage  welcomed  their 
coming.  Out  of  courtesy  to  the  duke,  a  salvo  of  cannon 
was  fired  from  the  yacht ;  and  the  salute  was  returned, 
shot  by  shot,  from  the  bastion. 

"Poor  duke!"  said  grandma.  "We  are  making  him 
waste  his  powder!" 

The  yachting-party  witnessed,  indeed,  a  grand  spec- 
tacle. It  was  the  country  itself,  with  the  forests  in  its 
valleys  and  its  uplands  ragged  with  wild  rocks.  You 
could  imagine  paths  winding  around  precipices,  and 
rivulets  falling  down  the  crags  like  shining  swords. 
High  up  and  far  away,  with  its  base  lost  in  the  mist 
and  its  summit  lighted  by  the  fays  of  the  sun,  the 
Kutsch-kom  Mountain  closed  in  the  horizon. 

The  port  was  at  the  end  of  a  gulf,  with  two  gigantic 
cliffs  reaching  out  at  the  sides.  The  yachting-party  was 
still  fresh  from  their  view  of  the  white  terraces  of  the 
Achilleion  of  Corfu,  with  its  marble  statues  and  its 
orange-trees;  and  they  looked  with  astonishment  at  this 
corner  full  of  shadows,  with  the  thousand-year-old  castle 


A  CASTLE  OF  THE  ADRIATIC  399 

perched  upon  its  rock.  It  was  seated  on  lofty  and  solid 
buttresses.  A  rampart  flanked  by  thick  bastions  de- 
fended it;  and  stunted  box-trees  stretched  over  it  their 
dark  branches.  Behind,  wide,  deep  passages  led  up  to 
battlemented  towers. 

At  its  feet  the  little  city  interlaced  its  narrow  streets. 
You  felt  that  it  was  builded  in  feudal  times,  and  had 
been  constructed  under  the  master's  eye,  and  by  his 
orders.  Later,  it  had  pushed  back  its  walls  and  extended 
into  the  plain.  A  dike  by  the  beach,  strewn  with  fallen 
boulders,  sheltered  it  against  the  sea.  A  road  up  an 
embankment,  broken  by  intervals  of  steps,  led  up  from 
the  city  to  the  castle.  Everything  seemed  weighted  down 
with  the  years,— the  Byzantine  domes  of  churches,  Ori- 
ental minarets,  Frankish  towers;  everywhere  you  felt 
the  succession  of  the  ages. 

"It  is  a  romantic  country,"  said  Ethel.  "There  is 
no  need  of  a  mirage  to  believe  one 's  self  in  the  heart  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  We  have  only  to  look  at  the  setting  of 
the  scene  to  be  transported  centuries  back.  All  these  old 
things  must  reek  with  superstition.  If  you  stayed  here 
long,  Will,  you,  too,  would  end  by  believing  in  Mor- 
gana. See,"  added  Ethel,  as  amused  as  a  child,  "see, 
she  is  smiling  at  us !  That  shining  point  up  there,  above 
the  Gothic  portal — it  is  Morgana 's  window, — the  win- 
dow the  duke  was  telling  us  about,— do  you  remember, 
grandma?  Up  there,  in  the  tower  front!" 

Everybody  looked  where  she  was  pointing,  but  just 
then  the  reflection  of  the  sun's  rays  disappeared,  and 
the  window  was  quenched  in  shadow. 

The  bells  of  the  city,  ringing  the  Angelus  in  the 


400  FATA   MORGANA 

evening  calm,  sounded  like  a  salutation  to  Morgana. 
They  had  seen  Loreto  and  its  Casa  Santa,  brought 
thither  by  angels ;  the  cathedral  church  of  San  Ciriaco, 
in  Ancona,  once  a  temple  of  Venus;  Ravenna,  where 
the  heroine  Amalberga  was  deified ;  Venice,  protected 
by  its  winged  lions.  So,  after  their  long  cruise  in  this 
sea  of  legend,  they  came  well  prepared  to  study  the 
people's  superstitions  and  the  folk-lore  of  Morgania. 
They  tasted,  in  anticipation,  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the 
daily  life  of  the  castle,  wherein  there  had  been  no  change 
for  centuries. 

Every  one  seemed  to  have  important  things  to  do.  On 
the  morrow  Phil  was  to  put  his  Morgana  picture  in 
place,  and  retouch  it  on  the  spot.  Ethel  and  Will  were 
to  go  on  an  excursion.  Caracal  would  delve  into 
ducal  archives.  Grandma  was  already  Uase  on  these 
cities  of  pigmies,  wherein  music  takes  the  place  of  the 
noise  of  foundries,  and  where  men  sleep  with  their  heads 
in  the  shade  and  their  feet  in  the  sun  while  they  digest 
their  garlic.  Grandma  would  remain  on  deck  and  look 
at  Morgania  over  her  glasses. 

"I  hope,  M.  Caracal,  you  will  write  a  book  on 
Morgania  and  its  folk-lore,"  said  Ethel.  "You  would 
find  pathetic  things  into  which  this  people  must  have  put 
their  love  and  faith.  It  would  be  a  rest  after  the  cruel 
studies  which  you  devote,  it  seems,  to  modern  society." 

In  her  manner  of  speaking  to  Caracal,  it  was  per- 
ceptible that  Ethel  wished  to  be  merciful.  That  evening 
when  she  had  discovered  everything,  Phil  hardly  dared 
come  up  on  deck ;  but  the  next  day  he  was  greatly  sur- 
prised to  find  Ethel  as  smiling  as  ever,  and  Caracal 


A  CASTLE  OF  THE  ADRIATIC  401 

amiable  as  usual.  Ethel  was  even  talking  with  interest 
to  Caracal,  asking  questions  and  seeming  to  study  the 
man. 

From  the  dining-room,  through  the  port-holes,  they 
could  see  the  gray  mass  of  towers.  A  few  lights  were 
shining  along  the  hills ;  and  beyond  stretched  away  a 
great  wall  of  rocks  and  the  somber  woods.  The  yacht- 
ing-party admired  the  grandeur  of  the  landscape  as  they 
ate  their  peach  ice-cream. 

"I  want  to  see  the  sorceress,"  said  Ethel,  "provided 
they  don't  accuse  me  of  wishing  to  take  her  off  to  Amer- 
ica like  Richard  the  Lion-hearted." 

"As  for  me,"  said  Helia,  "I  should  dearly  like  to  see 
the  defile  where  Morgana  stopped  the  invasion." 

"We  shall  go  together,"  answered  Ethel;  "and  I 
hope  the  gentlemen  will  accompany  us.  For  me,  it  is 
a  place  of  pilgrimage ;  it  will  do  us  good  to  compare  our 
useless  lives  with  that  of  the  heroine.  We  shall  gather 
from  it  resolution  to  be  brave  and  energetic,  without 
prejudice,  of  course,  to  our  right  to  cry  out  for  the  least 
little  ache.  Never  mind ;  for  a  few  hours  we  shall  have 
understood  what  duty  is." 

"But  duty  does  n't  always  mean  that  one  should 
fight,"  said  Phil.  "It  takes  other  forms  as  well." 

"It  always  consists  in  fighting,"  said  Ethel;  "but 
not  always  against  some  one  else — oftenest  it  is  against 
ourselves. ' ' 

"There  is  no  one  slain  in  that  case,"  remarked  Cara- 
cal. "The  blows  we  strike  ourselves  are  never  mortal— 
we  are  careful  to  strike  with  the  flat  of  the  blade ! ' ' 

"That  's  the  way  they  punish  cowards,"  said  Ethel. 


402  FATA  MORGANA 

They  were  interrupted  by  a  lackey  announcing  the 
coming  of  the  Duke  of  Morgania. 

They  had  just  finished  dining,  and  they  went  up  on 
deck  to  receive  the  duke.  Helia  and  Sceurette  retired. 

Without,  everything  was  in  shadow.  A  dense  crowd 
thronged  the  jetty.  The  searchlight  of  the  yacht  threw 
its  rays  upon  the  shore  and  brought  out  here  and  there 
white  minarets  and  roofs  and  domes.  A  swarm  of  people 
—men,  women,  and  children— half  blinded  by  the  light, 
stared  at  the  yacht.  The  shining  of  their  eyes  could  be 
seen;  here  there  was  the  glitter  of  a  poniard-handle, 
and  there  the  glow  of  silver  buckles.  There  were  men  in 
great  drugget  cloaks  over  their  white  fustanelle,  and 
women  clad  in  long  red  garments,  which  fell  straight  as 
on  figures  in  shrines.  Anxious  faces  might  be  seen,  with 
scared  expressions;  and  from  the  crowd,  pressed  to- 
gether like  a  herd,  mounted  up  a  confused  murmur. 

The  word  of  command  was  heard;  and  there  was  a 
sound  of  oars  striking  the  water.  A  small  boat  came 
alongside,  a  rope  was  thrown  out,  and  the  ladder  low- 
ered; and  Monseigneur,  the  Duke  of  Morgania,  came 
up.  The  light  fell  full  upon  him.  The  dufce  bowed  re- 
spectfully to  the  ladies,  and  shook  the  men  by  the  hand, 
like  a  boon  companion. 

"I  'm  not  putting  you  out  too  much,  I  hope?" 

"We  are  delighted  to  see  you,"  said  grandma.  "Come 
into  the  music-room." 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  monseigneur ;  we  shall  not  have 
music ! ' '  added  Ethel. 

"You  are  right,"  said  the  duke;  "no  music  is  worth 
the  sound  of  friendly  voices.  How  happy  I  am  to  see 


A  CASTLE   OF  THE  ADRIATIC  403 

you  again!  I  thank  you  for  coming,— I  seem  to  be 
leaving  my  exile." 

The  descendant  of  Morgana  and  of  Rhoda'is  offered 
his  arm  to  grandma,  to  enter  the  salon.  As  soon  as 
they  were  seated,  conversation  began,  as  if  they  had 
left  each  other  but  the  day  before ;  it  was  familiar  and 
gay,  as  among  members  of  the  same  social  world. 

"What  is  the  news  in  Paris?" 

"We  do  not  come  from  there.  Talk  to  us  about  the 
sorceress,"  said  Ethel. 

* '  On  the  contrary,  let  us  not  speak  of  her !  The  coun- 
try is  upside  down ;  every  one  is  losing  his  head.  I  should 
not  be  astonished  if,  to-morrow,  when  the  people  see  you, 
they  should  all  cry,  'Morgana!'  ' 

"Why,  that  would  amuse  me  immensely!"  said  Ethel. 
"How  is  it  possible  for  you  to  be  bored  in  such  a  coun- 
try? It  must  be  always  interesting." 

"Oh,  very,  very  interesting!"  said  the  duke.  "But 
I  should  prefer  something  else." 

"And  yet,  to  lead  the  people!— and  then,  what  about 
your  heroines,— Morgana  and  Rhoda'is  and  Bertha,— all 
those  valiant  women?" 

"Ah!  that  's  what  we  need  nowadays,"  said  the  duke. 
"Perhaps  one  valiant  woman  like  those  ancestors  of 
mine  would  save  Morgania ! ' ' 

"Is  Morgania  threatened  to  that  degree?"  asked 
Ethel.  "We  were  counting  on  long  excursions  into  the 
interior." 

"You  come  at  a  bad  time  for  that,  Miss  Rowrer!" 

In  a  few  words  he  gave  an  impressive  description  of 
the  state  of  the  country.  Everywhere  was  the  expecta- 


404  FATA  MORGANA 

tion  of  war,  with  all  its  disquiet.  Fields  were  unculti- 
vated, and  the  region  of  the  Moratscha  was  already  all 
but  emptied  of  its  inhabitants.  Bands  of  fugitives  were 
coming  in  every  day,  with  a  pitiful  procession  of  Chris- 
tians, chased  from  Albania  by  the  Turks.  "You  speak 
of  excursions  to  the  Castellum.  I  greatly  fear  you  'd 
not  be  able  to  do  water-color  sketches  there.  At  most 
you  might  take  kodak  shots  at  brutes  always  ready  to 
fire  on  strangers  and  pillage  them.  The  state  of  things 
is  insupportable.  However,  I  will  have  you  accompanied 
by  a  squad  of  soldiers." 

"How  will  it  all  end?"  Phil  asked. 

"I  count  on  the  aid  of  the  Great  Powers,"  said  the 
duke. 

Will  and  Phil  could  not  help  smiling.  The  duke  him- 
self watched  the  smoke  of  his  cigar  with  an  enigmatic 
air.  Perhaps  he  saw  in  it  the  image  of  the  stability 
and  fixity  of  design  of  the  Great  Powers. 

' '  Don 't  count  too  much  on  them, ' '  said  Will. 

"Meanwhile,"  the  duke  added,  "you  must  consider 
yourselves  quite  safe  in  my  stronghold,  where  I  shall  be 
greatly  honored  to  offer  you  hospitality.  Your  rooms 
will  be  as  large  as  churches,  and  you  shall  have  an  im- 
mense stone  staircase  for  yourselves  alone." 

"You  must  be  kind  enough  to  excuse  me,  Monsieur  le 
Due,"  said  grandma. 

"Well,  Morgania  is  yours!"  the  duke  answered,  as  he 
rose  to  take  his  departure.  "I  shall  be  only  too  happy 
to  be  useful  to  you, — you  must  dispose  of  me  at  your 
pleasure ! ' ' 


A  CASTLE   OF   THE  ADRIATIC  405 

As  the  duke  crossed  the  threshold,  he  saw  Soeurette 
running  by. 

"I  know  that  child,"  said  the  duke. 

"And  her  sister  also!"  Ethel  said,  repressing  a  smile, 
for  Parisian  gossip  had  informed  her  of  the  duke's  ad- 
miration for  Helia.  "She  is  on  board,  traveling  with 
us." 

"Let  her,  too,  come  to  the  castle,"  said  the  duke. 
"The  little  girl  will  be  charming  company  for  my  son; 
his  life  is  not  any  too  gay,  and  with  these  continual 
troubles  the  future  is  still  darker  for  a  ducal  heir." 

"Poor  child!"  said  grandma. 

The  duke,  before  he  left  them,  insisted  again  on  the 
danger  of  excursions.  He  was  getting  ready  to  go  down 
when  Helia  appeared,  looking  for  Soeurette. 

"Mile.  Helia,"  said  the  duke,  "I  am  happy  to  see  you 
again,"  and  he  bowed  to  her  with  his  perfect  tact. 

Helia  had  heard  the  end  of  the  conversation.  She 
came  just  as  the  duke  was  speaking  of  a  possible  in- 
vasion. 

"And  you,  Mile.  Helia,"  he  added,  with  a  smiling  air 
of  protection,  "what  would  you  do  if  you  were  attacked? 
You  know  there  is  going  to  be  fighting  in  our  country." 

"That  's  very  easily  settled,  monseigneur, "  Helia 
said,  with  a  voice  in  which  there  was  a  thrill  as  of  self- 
sacrifice.  "If  there  's  question  of  fighting,  I  will  do  my 
part!" 

"What  an  Amazon!"  the  duke  said,  looking  at  Helia 
with  a  smile.  "So  if  the  occasion  demanded  you  would 
do  like  my  ancestresses :  you  'd  sleep  on  the  mountain- 


406  FATA  MORGANA 

side,  in  the  snow  and  rain  night  and  day,  to  give  an 
example ! ' ' 

"Yes,  monseigneur, "  said  Helia. 

The  duke  made  his  final  bows,  with  a  diplomatic  sense 
of  degrees  answering  to  the  differences  of  rank  between 
grandma  and  Ethel  and  Helia,  and  then  went  down  to 
his  boat,  which  was  rowed  rapidly  away. 

There  was  not  a  cheer  on  the  shore  for  the  duke.  A 
dull  silence  reigned  on  the  jetty,  broken  only  by  con- 
fused expressions  of  anxiety.  Fingers  pointed  to  the 
yacht,  as  if  to  say,  "What  is  it?"  No  doubt  they  im- 
agined it  to  be  some  powerful  envoy  of  the  great  nations. 
Meanwhile  the  duke  disappeared  in  the  night. 

The  searchlight  wavered  for  a  moment,  and  then 
fell  on  the  castle.  The  people  on  the  jetty  were  no 
longer  visible,  lost  in  the  shadow.  But  the  murmur  of 
the  crowd  was  still  heard,  and  a  dim  reflected  light 
gave  the  city  a  phantasmal  look,  while  beyond  might 
be  divined  the  deserted  country,  the  mountains  and 
valleys. 

"I  don't  understand  the  duke,"  said  Ethel,  in  a  low 
voice.  "He  should  be  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  re- 
creating a  people.  The  duke  must  be  wanting  in  reso- 
lution. I  seem  to  see  him  in  his  castle  regulating  ques- 
tions of  etiquette,  brightening  up  a  little  the  faded  gilt 
of  his  stage-setting,  and  regretting  Paris— a  stranger  to 
his  people 's  aspirations.  Yet  how  many  things  are  to  be 
done  here— wretchedness  to  console,  ignorance  to  en- 
lighten! In  his  place  I  would  never  have  waited  for 
them  to  come  to  fetch  me  back  from  Paris. ' ' 

Ethel    suddenly    interrupted    herself.      "See!'"    she 


The  {Searchlight  on  the  Castle 


A  CASTLE  OF  THE  ADRIATIC  409 

called  to  Will  and  grandma,  "see,  Morgana  smiles  to  us 
again!  See  the  light  yonder,  behind  Helia!" 

Just  then  the  searchlight  illumined  the  top  of  the 
Gothic  portal.  The  Morgana  window  glittered  through 
the  night. 

"Do  not  stir,  I  entreat  you!"  Ethel  said  to  Helia. 
' '  The  window  throws  a  halo  around  you ! ' ' 

Indeed,  they  could  see  the  dark  profile  of  Helia  in 
relief  against  the  glittering  background.  She  was  su- 
perb, standing  upright,  with  her  head  raised  proudly, 
and  one  hand  grasping  a  ratline  of  the  mast.  She 
looked  as  if  she  were  wielding  an  immense  lance,  like  a 
warrior-woman  of  heroic  days. 


CHAPTER    IV 

THE  LITTLE  DUKE 

THE  next  day,  as  they  entered  the  Hall  of  the  An- 
cestors, grandma  dropped  the  duke's  arm  to  seat 
herself  in  a  great  chair.  But  the  chair  was  in 
carved  wood  and  very  hard.  Decidedly,  this  was  a  feudal 
castle,  and  much  less  comfortable  than  a  Chicago  home. 

Ethel  thanked  the  little  Adalbert  with  a  big  kiss.  The 
child,  accompanied  by  his  father,  had  been  the  guide 
of  Ethel  and  grandma.  He  had  climbed  up  and  down 
steps  too  high  for  him ;  but  Ethel  gave  him  her  hand ; 
and  the  child  explained  and  mentioned  names,  as  he 
showed  mosaics  and  statues  in  the  crypt.  "My  grand- 
father, Amalfrid  IX,  my  ancestor  Enguerrand,  Lady 
Rhodais,  Bertha,  St.  Morgana";— one  would  have  said 
he  was  the  familiar  genius  of  the  place,  a  little  wandering 
soul  of  the  dead,  doing  to  the  living  the  honors  of  the 
past. 

When  they  issued  forth  from  these  gloomy  vaults, 
Adalbert  hastened  to  go  off  and  play  with  Sceurette 
behind  the  pillars  of  the  great  hall. 

For  some  days  the  place  was  the  scene  of  constant 
festivity.  The  noise  of  laughter  was  heard;  there  was 
talk  and  the  movement  of  life,  and  roses  garnished  the 

410 


THE  LITTLE  DUKE  411 

vases.  Servants  carried  back  and  forth  cakes  and  fruits. 
At  times,  beneath  the  arches,  there  rolled  an  uncertain 
harmony,— it  was  Ethel  trying  the  old  piano. 

What  a  change  for  Adalbert,  who  was  used  to  being 
alone  with  his  aged  tutor.  Until  then  his  walks  along 
the  ramparts,  amid  the  box-trees  twisted  by  the  wind, 
had  been  his  chief  amusement.  How  often  he  had  wished 
to  go  down  and  untie  the  old  boat  moored  at  the  foot  of 
the  wall,  and  sail  out  into  the  bay ! 

But  the  duke,  with  all  his  frequent  traveling,  had 
the  child  whom  he  adored  looked  after  with  the  greatest 
care.  It  was  the  last  of  his  race,— their  last  hope.  If 
the  child  should  die,  to  which  of  his  powerful  neigh- 
bors would  the  duchy  fall  as  a  prey  ?  So  the  child  grew 
up  in  the  old  castle  with  the  portraits  of  his  forefathers 
looking  down  at  him ;  and  his  imagination  awoke  to  the 
recital  of  ancient  legends.  In  his  dreams  by  night  he 
saw  gentle  visions  bending  over  him.  Now,  all  had  grown 
alive,  and  the  visions  were  realities.  There  were  big 
friends  to  dance  him  on  their  knees;  there  was  a  kind 
old  fairy  speaking  softly  to  him  in  a  foreign  tongue. 
Two  young  maidens,  more  beautiful  than  those  of  his 
dreams,  took  him  in  their  arms;  and  for  playmates  he 
had  a  delightful  little  girl  who  taught  him  games  and 
called  him  Monseigneur.  Ethel  looked  at  Adalbert  play- 
ing with  Sceurette;  the  child  was  bright  and  gay,  and 
she  complimented  the  duke. 

"It  is  because  your  visit  gives  him  such  pleasure," 
said  the  duke, — "as  much  as  to  me,  were  it  possible!  I 
don't  know  what  he  will  do  when  you  go  away,— poor 
Adalbert!  He  will  be  very  sorry." 


412  FATA  MORGANA 

Ethel  looked  thoughtful.  The  duke  leaned  over  the 
back  of  her  chair,  and,  so  as  to  be  heard  by  her  alone, 
spoke  slowly : 

"It  will  be  his  apprenticeship  in  life.  Separation 
from  what  one  loves  most  in  the  world — that  is  where 
everything  ends;  and  yet,  perhaps — " 

Ethel  did  not  answer,  but  remained  with  her  head 
resting  on  her  hand.  She  understood  quite  well  what 
the  duke  wished  to  say.  She  looked  aimlessly  before  her, 
thinking  of  all  that  she  had  seen,  of  all  these  parade- 
rooms  and  chambres  d'honneur,  and  the  gloomy  stair- 
ways. The  gallery,  adorned  with  portraits  and  suits  of 
heavy  armor,  haunted  her.  The  donjons  and  courtyards, 
the  bastions  and  the  moat  and  rusty  drawbridge, — she 
saw  it  all  in  her  mind.  In  the  old  time,  on  festive  days, 
what  a  grand  air  it  must  all  have  had,  with  the  heralds' 
trumpets,  with  banqueting  and  tournaments,  where  fair 
duchesses  crowned  those  who  vanquished!  Or,  again, 
at  the  home-coming  from  the  wars,  when  the  Lady  Knight 
of  Malta,  Queen  of  Antioch,  saluted  with  her  sword  the 
torn  banners!  What  a  magnificent  opportunity  there 
would  be  to  bring  this  all  back  to  sight,  if  she  should 
make  Morgania  live  again  with  her  millions !  The  castle 
could  be  made  the  most  princely  abode  in  Europe.  But 
she  wished  to  know  more  of  Duke  Conrad.  She  wished 
to  judge  of  him  without  being  dazzled  by  his  titles. 
She  was  not  to  marry  ancestors,  but  a  husband  whom  she 
might  love ! 

"Your  castle  is  as  big  as  a  mountain,"  she  said  to  the 
duke;  "you  go  up  and  go  down.  I  am  now  in  full 
training  for  my  excursion  to  the  Roman  .ruins,  and  to 


THE  LITTLE   DUKE  415 

that  not  less  venerable  ruin,  the  sorceress.  When  shall 
we  go,  monseigneur  ? " 

"Presently,"  said  the  duke,  as  he  pointed  to  pack- 
ages and  luggage  by  the  door  of  the  hall.  "But  if  I 
were  you,  I  would  not  go  to  Drina,"  he  added  earnestly. 

"Do  you  fear  for  the  escort  which  accompanies  us?" 
said  Ethel,  with  a  smile. 

' '  No ;  but  if  harm  should  come  to  you,  what  grief  for 
me!"  replied  the  duke. 

"Nothing  will  happen  to  us!"  said  Ethel.  "And 
then,  can  you  imagine  me  going  back  to  Chicago  without 
having  had  a  single  kodak-shot  at  brigands  from  na- 
ture?" 

"I  am  unable  to  accompany  you,  and  I  regret  it," 
said  the  duke.  "I  have  to  make  an  inspection  of  the 
coast,  and  I  ought  also  to  receive  a  delegation  of  the 
people. ' ' 

"We  shall  go  alone,"  said  Ethel.  "St.  Morgana  will 
protect  us." 

Something  happened  which  greatly  amused  Ethel  and 
grandma ;  and  the  duke  himself  could  not  help  smiling. 
Adalbert  broke  off  his  play  with  Soeurette,  and  came 
running  to  his  father.  He  looked  in  turn  at  the  Mor- 
gana of  the  picture  and  at  Helia,  who  was  sitting  near  it. 
The  great  canvas,  illuminated  by  the  stained-glass  win- 
dow, harmonized  splendidly  with  the  hall.  At  the  dis- 
tance where  Ethel  and  the  duke  were  placed,  there  was 
nothing  to  hide  the  view  of  the  painting.  They  saw 
all  its  details,  even  the  crowd  which  Phil  had  depicted 
along  the  shore;  it  might  have  been  the  same  crowd 
which  thronged  the  jetty  the  evening  of  the  yacht's  ar- 


416  FATA   MORGANA 

rival,  when  the  booming  of  the  cannon  drew  the  people 
to  the  sea. 

But  the  crowd  in  Phil's  picture  was  more  animated 
and  gay.  Instead  of  the  gloom  of  discouragement,  it 
seemed  transfigured  by  hope.  It  acclaimed  the  heroine ; 
Rhoda'is  and  Bertha  and  Thilda,  with  swords  in  their 
hands,  appeared  amid  the  clouds.  Everything  in  the 
magnificent  picture  was  strange  and  supernatural. 

The  child  had  just  been  struck  by  the  resemblance  be- 
tween the  model  and  the  portrait  of  Morgana ;  his  aston- 
ishment was  touching,  as  he  looked  from  one  to  the 
other.  He  asked  himself  if  the  ancient  legends  were  not 
realized  at  last!  if  Morgana  herself  had  not  risen  again 
from  the  past,  to  be  painted  by  Phil. 

"My  father,"  said  the  child  to  the  duke,  "is  it  really 
Morgana?  Tell  me!" 

"What  a  child!"  answered  the  duke,  taking  him  in 
his  arms  to  kiss  him.  "He  believes  that  Mile.  Helia 
is  Morgana."  And  he  looked  at  Ethel  as  if  to  say,  "I 
know  full  well  who  Morgana  is — it  is  you!" 


CHAPTER  V 

VISITING  THE  SORCERESS 

THE  conveyance  and  escort  for  Ethel,  with  Suzanne 
and  Helia,  were  awaiting  them  at  the  other  side 
of  the  city.  There  were  also  horses  for  Will  and 
Phil.  Sceurette  was  to  remain  behind,  to  keep  company 
with  the  little  Monseigneur.  Grandma  returned  to  the 
yacht,  quite  out  of  sympathy  with  living  in  old  castles 
which  have  plenty  of  stairways  but  no  elevators. 

Ethel  had  already  seen  the  city;  yet  she  had  an  ever 
new  pleasure  in  these  comings  and  goings.  Her  inquisi- 
tiveness  was  satisfied  to  the  full.  She  was  making  stud- 
ies of  a  population  as  ignorant  as  it  was  unknown,  an- 
chored to  its  old-time  customs,  and  closed  in  by  its  moun- 
tains, like  monks  within  their  cloisters.  Yet  beneath 
all  this  torpor  one  could  feel  unconquerable  pride  and 
love  of  vengeance  and  of  glory. 

These  motionless  shopkeepers  would  sell  you  a  pair 
of  slippers  or  a  whole  outfit  of  pistols  and  daggers  for 
the  belt.  All  these  warlike  accoutrements  were  amuse- 
ments to  Ethel ;  she  found  them  even  on  the  porter  who 
peacefully  brought  her  packages  from  the  hall  of  the 
throne  to  the  carriage. 

As  soon  as  they  had  come  down  from  the  castle,  after 
417 


418  FATA  MORGANA 

turning  back  a  last  time  to  salute  the  duke,  whom  eti- 
quette bound  to  the  ramparts,  along  with  Caracal,  the 
party  entering  the  town  seemed  passing  through  a 
haunt  of  brigands.  Pieces  of  basket-work  hung  before 
the  shops.  Suspended  on  nails  in  the  shade  were  the 
bridles  of  horses,  shining  with  brass,  and  red  leather 
saddles,  and  swords.  Savage  eyes  looked  out  to  see 
them  go  by. 

The  season  for  heavy  siestas  had  passed.  All  the  day 
long  the  crowd  thronged  the  street.  Shepherds,  clad  in 
hairy  goatskins  and  shod  with  leather  sandals,  mingled 
with  soldiers,  at  whose  side  was  slung  long  Albanian 
rifles.  They  talked  politics  as  they  drank  their  coffee. 

Others  displayed  the  cylindric  turban,  the  knit  silken 
girdle,  and  the  dagger-sheath  of  brass.  Women  with 
knit  boots,  and  dressed  in  scarlet  embroidered  with 
arabesques,  sang  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  guzla — 
that  lyre  with  its  single  string  made  of  twisted  hair. 
They  droned  out  a  psalmody  of  mountaineers,  recalling 
the  ancient  glories  of  their  country. 

Adalbert's  tutor,  who  accompanied  the  party,  trans- 
lated and  explained  the  songs. 

The  blood  sprang  to  the  cheeks  of  the  impetuous  queen ; 
Then  every  soldier  satisfied  his  vengeance ; 
None  like  Morgana ! 

Swift  and  daring  she  struck  this  one  and  pierced  that  one  ! 
Ah,  she  poured  out  to  her  enemies  a  bitter  drink ! 
Thus  they  all  perished  ! 

Everywhere  the  impassioned  looks  and  voices  of  the 
crowd  made  them  feel  that  war  was  near.  All  these 


VISITING  THE   SORCERESS  419 

peasants,  coming  from  different  regions,  were  stirred  by 
a  common  desire — to  see  the  return  of  the  heroic  days 
when  Morgana  and  Rhodai's  and  the  great  ancestresses 
had  led  the  people  to  victory. 

Every  one  in  the  street  drew  aside  as  the  party  passed. 
The  rumor  had  run  that  a  queen  was  to  visit  the  duke 
—a  young  maiden  from  unknown  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
where  the  sun  sets.  Which  one  was  it  ?  Ethel  or  Helia  ? 
Perhaps  both?  The  people  were  in  admiration  at  their 
noble  air.  Women  grown  prematurely  old  in  the  harsh 
labor  of  the  fields  were  in  ecstasy  at  their  beauty.  To 
them  the  two  young  girls  seemed  of  a  higher  race,  like 
that  of  the  saints  and  heroines  in  the  stained-glass  win- 
dows of  their  churches;  they  followed  them  with  their 
eyes,  and  took  up  again  their  chants  in  honor  of  Mor- 
gana. 

Morgana  was  the  universal  inspiration;  she  was 
everywhere.  In  the  back  of  gloomy  shops  icons  were 
to  be  seen— St.  Morgana,  with  the  Virgin,  dimly  lighted 
by  a  burning  float.  There  was  something  touching  in 
the  faith  which  this  people  had  in  their  national  legends. 

Ethel  appreciated  the  silence  of  the  crowd  on  the 
jetty  that  evening  when  the  duke  quitted  the  yacht. 
No;  his  people  did  not  recognize  themselves  in  him. 
They  still  had  a  certain  respect  for  him,  for  the  sake 
of  his  glorious  ancestors;  but  the  people  were  prepared 
to  abandon  him,  and  to  take  shelter  in  their  dreams. 

One  would  have  said  that  the  power  of  the  state  was 
no  longer  in  the  ducal  castle,  but  far  away  by  the  spurs 
of  the  Kutsch-kom  Mountain,  where  lived  the  sorceress, 
the  primitive  oracle  of  her  race.  They  paid  no  atten- 


420  FATA   MORGANA 

tion  to  their  effeminate  master,  and  listened  only  to  this 
ancestral  voice,  that  foretold  national  happiness. 

"Phil,"  said  Ethel,  "you  know  the  proverb,  'When 
you  are  in  Rome,  do  as  the  Romans  do.'  It  's  a  useless 
recommendation,  for  we  can't  help  doing  it.  But  even 
if  we  don't  act  like  this  people,  we  are  rather  Morganian 
in  our  thoughts,  are  we  not?  And  it  is  the  women  who 
interest  me  chiefly,"  Ethel  continued.  "It  is  their 
heroines  whose  remembrance  fills  the  people  with  a 
hope  beyond  realization.  And  yet— what  if  it  should 
be  realized?  We  can  never  be  certain." 

Phil  was  silent, — Helia  was  at  his  side. 

"You  look  a  little  tired,"  Ethel  said  to  her. 

Phil  took  Helia 's  arm ;  and  they  walked  together,  talk- 
ing little,  making  indifferent  remarks  to  each  other,  each 
alone  with  his  own  innermost  thoughts.  They  were 
leaving  the  weavers'  street  for  that  of  the  armorers. 

"There  is  enough  here  to  cut  the  throats  of  a  nation!" 
Phil  could  not  help  observing. 

They  were  between  the  lines  of  shops.  The  sun's  rays 
fell  straight  down,  striking  flashes  from  the  niello  work 
of  the  rifles,  from  the  ivory  of  the  Albanese  pistols, 
and  from  the  clusters  of  daggers  hanging  from  their 
hooks.  They  were  of  every  form  and  size :  the  Malay 
creese,  curved  zigzag  like  a  lightning-flash ;  Venetian 
stilettos,  as  pointed  as  a  bee's  sting;  and  others  pierced 
with  holes,  for  their  amalgam  of  arsenic  and  grease, 
looking  like  blotches.  Besides  the  slender,  elegant  blade 
to  be  worn  at  the  garter,  there  were  horn-handled  knives, 
real  bandits'  weapons,  made  to  stick  into  the  back. 

Phil  thought  of  the  landscape  he  had  painted  for 


./•a 


:Does  the  sight  of  so  many  weapons  make  you  nervous?1 


VISITING  THE  SORCERESS  423 

Ethel  when  he  had  come  from  the  circus,  and  of  the 
man  who  had  sought  for  a  knife  in  his  pocket,  threat- 
ening Helia  from  a  distance. 

That  very  moment,  as  if  some  mysterious  sympathy 
had  been  set  up  between  Helia  and  himself,  he  felt  the 
young  girl's  arm  tremble  in  his  own.  Helia  pressed 
against  him  in  a  movement  of  unreasoned  fear. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Helia?"  he  asked.  "Does  the 
sight  of  so  many  weapons  make  you  nervous?" 

' '  No,  it  is  not  that, ' '  said  Helia,  looking  at  the  market- 
place thronged  with  people. 

"What  are  you  looking  at?"  Phil  insisted.  "Has 
any  one  frightened  you?  Do  me  the  honor  to  fear  no- 
thing when  on  my  arm,  Helia!" 

"Oh!  I  am  afraid  of  nothing,"  answered  Helia. 
' '  Forgive  me !  it  was  surprise.  I  thought  I  saw  some 
one,  recognized  some  one ;  but  no,  I  must  be  crazy — ' ' 

"You  have  seen  some  one?    Whom?" 

Helia  was  on  the  point  of  answering,  ' '  Socrate ! ' '  but 
she  did  not  pronounce  the  name.  Already  he  had  been 
spoken  of  too  much  between  her  and  Phil.  Besides,  she 
no  longer  could  see  the  man.  Yet  she  would  have  sworn 
that  but  now,  there,  behind  that  group,  she  had  beheld 
the  flat  face  of  Socrate  looking  at  her  stealthily.  It 
must  have  been  an  illusion.  Was  she  now  going  to  meet 
Socrate  everywhere?  Already,  on  board  the  yacht,  one 
evening  when  she  was  looking  from  the  deck  into  the 
boiler-room,  she  thought  she  had  seen  him  in  the  red 
rays  of  the  fires  with  his  eyes  lifted  toward  her,  shin- 
ing from  a  face  black  with  coal-dust.  Surely,  it  must 
have  been  because,  when  they  left  Marseilles,  Suzanne 


424  FATA  MORGANA 

burst  into  laughter,  saying:  "See  the  stokers  they  are 
taking  on!  There  is  one  who  looks  like  Socrate!" 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  find  out?"  Phil  asked. 

"No ;  remain  here,  Phil— here,  at  my  side.  It  was  just 
an  idea  I  had— but  do  not  leave  me,"  she  added,  pressing 
against  him  once  more. 

"A  woman's  idea!"  'thought  Phil.  "I  can  under- 
stand it,  in  this  country  where  they  sell  daggers  in  clus* 
ters  as  they  sell  bananas  with  us." 

The  attention  of  both  was  drawn  away  by  a  change  of 
scene.  They  had  left  the  city  behind  them  and  were 
already  in  the  open  country.  Peasants  were  driving 
their  mules  or  pushing  carts,  with  children  perched  upon 
bundles  of  straw  and  packs  of  rags.  They  were  com- 
ing to  augment  the  tumult  of  those  who  had  taken  to 
the  city  for  refuge. 

"It  seems  to  me  we  are  going  the  wrong  way,"  said 
Ethel,  laughing;  "every  one  is  turning  his  back  to  us." 

"Why,  we  've  just  started,"  said  Phil.  "We  must 
go  on  now  to  the  end." 

"Of  course,"  Ethel  said,  in  delight;  "and  it  's  so  ex- 
citing! I  'd  go  through  fire  and  flames  to  see  some- 
thing really  new.  Come,  here  are  our  horses  waiting 
for  us!" 

"What  luck!"  cried  Suzanne,  "we  are  going  to  see 
a  sorceress — b-r-r-r-r!  it  sends  a  shiver  down  one's  back 
to  think  of  it!" 

This  childish  outburst  put  everybody  in  good  humor. 
Will  and  Phil  mounted  their  horses.  Ethel,  Helia,  and 
Suzanne  seated  themselves  on  the  benches  or  the  lug- 
gage in  the  conveyance;  and  the  escort  started  off. 


VISITING  THE   SORCERESS  425 

They  went  straight  into  the  mountains.  Except  the 
guides  and  two  soldiers  in  the  picturesque  costumes 
of  the  klephts,— white  gaiters  and  short  jacket,  like 
that  of  a  bull-fighter,  with  a  fustanelle  shirt, — no  one 
accompanied  the  tourists.  The  tutor  had  gone  back  to 
Adalbert.  There  was  no  danger  as  far  as  the  convent 
of  Semavat  Evi,  or  "House  of  Heaven,"  and  there  a 
larger  escort  was  awaiting  them  and  would  accompany 
them  to  the  frontier.  Ethel  asked  herself  in  what  con- 
dition she  would  reach  the  place,  so  shockingly  rough  was 
the  road.  Suzanne,  seated  on  a  valise  which  she  named 
her  strapontin  (an  aisle-seat  in  a  theater),  was  having 
immense  fun. 

"It  's  just  like  a  scene  in  the  Chatelet  Theater,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  the  landscape  where  the  huge  castle 
overlooked  the  old  city  huddled  together  at  its  feet,  with 
the  yacht  anchored  out  in  the  blue  sea.  She  shook  with 
laughter  as  the  wheel  passed  over  a  projecting  rock 
and  all  but  overthrew  the  conveyance. 

Ethel  and  Helia  looked  at  the  two  soldiers  marching 
ahead.  The  flapping  of  their  fustanelle  skirts,  when  they 
leaped  over  the  gutters,  gave  them  the  air  of  two  bal- 
let-dancers. The  contrast  between  their  brigand  heads 
and  the  collection  of  weapons  at  their  belts,  and  their 
long,  white,  agile  legs  was  so  comic  that  Ethel  and 
Helia  did  not  perceive  they  were  going  along  beside  a 
precipice.  The  cultivated  land  was  passed,  and  they 
could  see  only  tufts  of  thorny  shrubs.  Suzanne  alone 
gave  a  note  of  gaiety  to  the  bleak  landscape.  Ethel  let 
her  talk  on,  without  listening,  and  soon  Suzanne  was  si- 
lent, conquered  like  the  others  by  the  melancholy  sight. 


426  FATA  MORGANA 

The  horizon  broadened  around  them,  rising  up  on 
either  side.  Below,  the  plains  stretched  out  far  as  the 
eye  could  reach.  The  road  was  like  a  thread  lying 
along  the  ground.  By  this  road,  at  their  feet,  they 
would  come  back  from  the  excursion.  Ethel  looked 
with  interest  at  this  pathway  of  so  many  invasions.  The 
rude  mountaineers  of  Albania  had  followed  it  to  the  sea, 
and  more  than  once  invaders  had  filled  it  with  the  flash- 
ing of  their  swords.  Who  could  know  whether  Mor- 
gania  was  not  to  pass  again  through  such  a  period  of 
disaster?  There  was  now  no  living  wall  to  stay  the 
waves. 

The  wagon  went  up  and  up  in  endless  turnings.  Sud- 
denly, as  they  crossed  a  plateau  where  ragged  grass  was 
growing,  a  chant  arose,  monotonous  and  solemn,  and 
repeated  by  the  echoes.  On  every  side  they  seemed  to 
hear  lamentations  and  groans  issuing  forth  from  the 
earth  or  falling  from  the  clouds. 

"Where  are  we?"  asked  Ethel,  stirred  from  her  rev- 
erie. "I  see  no  one." 

"It  is  the  shepherds  over  there,"  said  Helia. 

Ethel  perceived,  in  the  midst  of  a  lean  flock,  beside 
a  fire  whose  smoke  mounted  straight  upward,  a  group 
of  shepherds  singing.  It  was  one  of  the  prismes  which 
they  sing  from  one  mountain  to  the  other.  Ethel  was 
greatly  impressed  by  these  spontaneous  chants  of  the 
desert.  In  them,  hoarse  cries  alternated  with  sharp, 
high  cadences  and  a  quickening  measure.  An  impres- 
sion of  grandeur  was  left  behind  by  this  singing  in  the 
solitude.  Ethel  thought  with  pity  of  the  old  untuned 
piano  in  the  castle,  and  of  the  sound  of  the  banjo,  thin 


VISITING  THE  SORCERESS  427 

as  the  humming  of  flies  among  the  massive  pillars  of 
the  throne-room.  The  castle  itself,— what  was  it  com- 
pared with  these  huge  natural  towers  overlooking  the 
road,  with  their  giant  steps  made  of  rocks  that  had  slid 
down?— or  to  these  ravines,  like  somber  courtyards,— to 
these  measureless  caverns  opening  like  vaults,  in  the 
depths  of  which  the  schist  rock  shone  like  stained-glass 
windows?  And  still  they  mounted  up,  turning  around 
these  strongholds  of  a  country  made  for  liberty.  They 
were  approaching  the  grotto  of  the  sorceress. 

A  joyful  burst  of  laughter  drew  Ethel  from  her  rev- 
erie. Behind  her,  seated  astride  a  package,  Suzanne  waa 
in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

"The  ballet!— oh,  Miss  Rowrer,  the  ballet  is  begin- 
ning— look  at  the  danseuses!" 

Suzanne  was  choking,  stuffing  her  handkerchief  into 
her  mouth  not  to  let  herself  be  heard. 

The  two  soldiers,  won  by  the  music's  enthusiasm,  were 
leaping  in  time  with  sharp  cries,  now  squatting  to 
earth  and  now  brandishing  their  rifles,  swaying  right 
and  left,  and  twirling  their  legs  while  their  fustanella 
skirts  stood  out  straight.  Like  monkeys  drunk  with 
cocoa-milk,  they  gave  inarticulate  cries— "Too!  yoo!" 

"Encore!"  cried  Suzanne. 

"My  kodak!"  said  Ethel. 

"I  'm  sitting  on  it!"  said  Suzanne;  "I  can  hear  it 
crack!" 

All  their  gaiety  had  come  back.  Ethel  felt  the  need 
of  shaking  off  the  mysterious  influence  that  had  been 
depressing  her  since  they  set  out. 

"Really,  I  'm  too  simple,"  she  said;  "I  shall  wind  up 


428  FATA  MORGANA 

by  believing  in  their  sorceress.  Poor  old  woman,  who 
will  sell  us  four-leaved  clover  against  thunder,  coral 
horns  against  the  evil  eye,  fetishes  and  prayer-mills  and 
garlic  pommade." 

1 '  How  happy  Pouf aille  would  be  here ! ' '  thought  Su- 
zanne. 

"What  a  journey!"  Ethel  continued.  "What  roads! 
I  am  all  shaken  up!  At  least  they  ought  to  build  a 
narrow-gage  railroad  in  such  a  country ! ' '  she  said  to 
Will,  who  had  come  up  with  her. 

' '  It  would  n  't  pay, ' '  said  Will.  ' '  But  if  I  owned  these 
mountains  I  'd  take  the  ore  out  of  them." 

"Mademoiselle  would  be  very  good  if  she  would  ask 
for  me  a  toad's-hair  chaplet, "  Suzanne  said,  in  a  low 
tone. 

"Ask?     From  whom?     From  my  brother?" 

' '  No !    From  the  old  sorceress ! ' ' 

' '  But  toads  have  n 't  hair,  Suzanne ! ' ' 

"It  was  M.  Caracal  told  me." 

"Oh,  if  you  're  going  to  believe  all  that  he  says— 

"Poor  old  woman!"  observed  Will,  "living  in 
such  a  hole,  stuck  to  her  rock  like  an  oyster  in  its 
shell!" 

"That  does  n't  prevent  her  consulting  the  stars  and 
occupying  herself  with  Jupiter,  and  knowing  a  hun- 
dred and  ten  ways  of  foretelling  the  future." 

"A  hundred  and  ten  ways — that  's  a  great  deal,"  re- 
plied Will.  "Which  is  the  best  of  them  all?" 

"Let  's  count  on  our  fingers,"  said  Ethel.  "I  '11 
begin.  Aeromancy,  by  the  air;  aleuromancy,  by  flour; 
telomancy,  by  arrows — " 


VISITING  THE   SORCERESS  429 

"—  Dactylomancy,  by  the  fingers;  chiromancy,  by  the 
hand ;  podomancy,  by  the  feet ! ' '  continued  Phil. 

"Hydromancy,  by  water,"  Ethel  began  again. 
"  Rhabdomancy,  by  sticks — " 

"That  's  for  Poufaille,"  thought  Suzanne.  "Vive 
la  rhabdomancie!" 

Just  then  the  horses  stopped,  and  the  driver  turned 
to  the  tourists,  saying  a  few  words  in  a  low  tone  of 
voice  and  pointing  with  his  finger  to  a  recess  in  the 
rock.  They  had  reached  their  journey's  end.  All  was 
silent.  Ethel,  Helia,  and  Suzanne  descended  from  the 
vehicle,  and  Will  and  Phil  leaped  from  their  horses. 

The  spot  was  a  wild  one.  Before  them  the  whole 
country  lay  outstretched.  Behind  them  mountains  were 
heaped  together.  The  wind  blew,  tossing  the  horses' 
manes;  and  the  great  passing  clouds  seemed  to  issue 
forth  from  the  mountain. 

The  visitors  took  a  few  steps  forward  and  saw  a 
black  hole.  It  was  the  cavern.  A  rough  statue  of  Mor- 
gana, virgin  and  martyr,  was  carved  in  the  living  rock. 
There  were  heaps  of  votive  offerings  around  it — little 
figures  of  children  and  birds,  veils  and  women's  girdles, 
daggers  and  flowers  and  fruits,  and  the  red  cake  which 
betrothed  ones  break  before  marriage.  A  peasant  wo- 
man at  her  prayers,  prostrate  on  the  rock  at  the  saint's 
feet,  was  praying  with  the  energy  of  despair,  and  call- 
ing for  vengeance. 

The  visitors  kept  on  advancing,  half  regretting  that 
they  had  come.  What  were  they  to  say  to  the  sorceress  ? 
Ethel,  greatly  moved,  took  Phil 's  arm.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  own  lot  was  to  be  decided.  She  felt  her  heart 


430  FATA  MORGANA 

beating  as  they  advanced  to  the  grotto.  Helia  was  at 
her  side.  Will  was  behind  with  Suzanne.  They  came 
to  the  opening  and  leaned  forward,  but  saw  nothing. 

Little  by  little  their  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  dark- 
ness. They  could  distinguish,  uncertainly,  in  the  depths, 
eyes  that  shone — and  then  a  figure,  huddled  together 
on  a  bed  of  rushes,  looking  at  them,  motionless,  with  her 
finger  to  her  mouth,  like  a  statue  of  silence !  The  eyes, 
fixed  in  turn  on  each  of  them,  suddenly  rested  upon 
Helia  with  a  strange  glow. 

' '  Oh,  how  she  looks  at  me ! ' '  Helia  said,  seizing  Ethel 's 
arm.  "Oh,  mon  Dieu,  if  she  only  will  not  speak!  Let 
us  go  away ;  I  entreat  you,  let  us  go  away !  I  am 
afraid!" 

They  started  back,  and  felt  relieved  when  they  were 
out  of  sight  of  the  sinister  eyes. 

"Let  us  go,"  said  Ethel. 

At  the  feet  of  St.  Morgana,  the  suppliant  one  was  now 
praying  as  in  an  ecstasy. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  FIGHT 
MISS   ETHEL  ROWREB  TO   MLLE.   DE   GROJEAN 

"On  board  the  Columbia. 

YOU  'LL  have  to  hang  yourself,  my  valorous 
Yvonne,  for  we  have  had  our  battle  without  you ! 
The  truth  is,  we  have  narrowly  escaped  being 
spitted  and  roasted.  That  's  a  promising  beginning, 
isn't  it?  Grand 'mere  will  be  delighted  that  you  were 
not  there ;  but  you  will  regret  it  if  you  read  my  letter  to 
the  end.  I  say  '  if, '  for  it  's  a  whole  history.  Excuse  my 
writing  feverishly,  on  the  gallop  ;  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  tell 
you.  I  promised  you  an  adventure  in  Morgania — and 
here  is  one.  Only  I  am  not  its  heroine,  alas !  For  it  is  a 
story  of  heroism,  and  that  of  the  purest.  As  for  me, 
I  feel  the  need  of  crying  aloud  my  admiration  for  that 
noble  young  girl.  Are  you  curious?  It  is  Helia;  you 
understand— Helia!  You  remember  her?  She  was  one 
of  those  who  *  don 't  count ' ! 

"I  come  to  the  facts. 

"We    have    left    Semavat  Eli— a    Heavenly    House, 

wherein  we  were  eaten  up  by  vermin,  and  served  by 

good  monks  who  amused  themselves  teaching  thrushes 

to   whistle.     The   next   day,    from   early   morning,    as 

431 


432  FATA   MORGANA 

soon  as  they  had  let  us  down,— by  the  window,  if  you 
please,  in  great  wicker  baskets  (for  in  this  country 
monasteries  have  no  doors), — Suzanne  seated  herself  on 
my  kodak,  Helia  and  I  on  our  valises,  Will  and  Phil 
straddled  their  horses,  and— forward,  march!  over 
pointed  rocks  to  Thermopylae!  that  is,  to  their  Ther- 
mopylae, which  is  the  defile  of  the  Moratscha.  It  was 
a  kind  of  pilgrimage  we  were  doing — five  in  all,  not 
counting  our  escort  of  ballet-dancers,  who  were  wait- 
ing for  us  at  the  monastery.  By  that,  I  mean  soldiers 
with  fustanelle  skirts,  armed  to  the  teeth,  very  white 
teeth  in  black  faces,  quite  like  wolves ! 

"The  evening  before  we  'd  climbed  up  all  the  way  to 
see  the  sorceress — I  ought  to  say  the  prophetess,  and 
you  must  not  laugh,  I  entreat  you,  for  it  would  give  me 
pain.  I  was  never  so  affected  in  my  life.  From  that 
place  to  Semavat  Eli  the  country  is  flat,  except  for  the 
horrible  road.  After  that,  we  had  to  go  down  and  down 
to  the  defile  along  the  river  Drina.  We  crossed  im- 
petuous torrents  where  there  was  not  enough  water  for 
a  water-color  sketch,  and  forests  dry  as  firewood,  all 
bristling  with  thorns,  so  that  we  could  not  go  near  with- 
out leaving  bits  of  our  gowns.  It  was  the  abomination 
of  desolation, — and  down  we  came,  down  and  down  to- 
ward the  plain;  and  through  the  plain  we  came  back. 
For  that  matter  there  is  nothing  to  see  but  ill-cultivated 
fields  and  dilapidated  houses. 

"It  is  a  country  where  there  are  no  locks.  The  duke 
told  me  so,  to  give  me  an  idea  of  his  people's  honesty. 
Suzanne,  who  is  an  amusing  child,  says  that  doors  with- 
out locks  are  the  invention  of  poor  countries ;  and  that 
there  are  no  thieves  where  there  is  nothing  to  steal. 


Helia  facing  the  Assailants 


THE  FIGHT  435 

"At  noon  we  stopped.  We  ate  and  rested,  and  our 
soldiers  sang  and  danced;  and  then  we  were  off  again. 
There  were  more  impetuous  watercourses  of  gravel  and 
pebble.  There  were  shepherds  watching  their  goats, 
and  red-haired  women  carrying  burdens  on  their  heads, 
and  looking  at  us  with  wide-open  mouths.  We  were 
near  the  spot. 

''Imagine  a  wild  gorge.  It  was  the  meeting  of  two 
ways,  from  the  mountain  and  from  the  plain.  Farther 
along  was  the  river  Drina,  with  its  old  bridge.  That 
is  the  end  of  Morgania,  which  is  protected  by  its  moun- 
tains, with  this  defile,  like  ThermopylaB,  as  its  only  en- 
trance. But,  you  will  ask  me,  what  about  Helia? 

"  Patience! 

"We  had  all  got  down,  leaving  the  horses  and  wagons 
in  the  shade  of  the  defile.  I  had  a  fixed  idea  that  I 
would  go  to  the  middle  of  the  frontier  bridge,  which 
belongs  half  to  Christ  and  half  to  Mohammed,  and  that  I 
would  also  visit  the  Roman  ruin  and  the  little  Christian 
village  farther  on,  which  has  a  little  belfry  like  a  min- 
aret. 

''But  as  we  drew  near  there  were  loud  cries,  and  a 
headlong  flight  of  peasants,  their  features  distorted  with 
fright  as  they  ran  past  us.  Then  there  was  the  fire  and 
smoke  of  a  fusillade,  the  tocsin  sounding,  and  then  more 
cries,— frightful  cries,— the  howling  of  hunted  beasts, 
piercing  the  ear  like  a  knife. 

"It  was  all  so  sudden  that  we  did  n't  know  what  to 
do.  We  all  spoke  at  once:  'What  is  it?'  'What  shall 
we  do?'  'Shall  we  defend  ourselves?'  'The  soldiers!' 

"There  were  no  soldiers— fled— out  of  sight!  We 
could  barely  see  their  white  ballet-skirts  leaping  away 


436  FATA   MORGANA 

in  every  direction.  We  were  going  to  have  our  throats 
cut  like  sheep !  I  remember  how  at  that  moment  the 
frightened  crowd  rushed  upon  the  bridge,  and  bore  us 
back  with  it  toward  the  defile.  Phil  grasped  my  arm 
and  said  to  Helia  and  me :  '  Don 't  be  afraid ;  I  'm  with 
you!'  There  was  such  fire  in  his  eyes  that  I  felt  re- 
assured. We  went  back  toward  the  wagon,  and  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  stuffed  my  fingers  in  my  ears,  letting  pass 
the  waves  of  howling  creatures, — men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren,— who  climbed  up  on  the  wagon  or  slipped  beneath 
it,  some  leaping  up  only  to  fall  back  with  convulsed 
features,  struck  down  by  the  bullets! 

"I  heard  Will  say  to  me,  'Turks !'  I  opened  my  eyes. 
Horsemen  were  riding  here  and  there  through  the  plain, 
striking  right  and  left  with  their  sabers.  Men  on  foot 
were  advancing,  singing  harshly.  I  heard  a  general  dis- 
charge, and  then  pitiful  cries.  The  wagon  turned  cross- 
wise of  the  defile.  One  of  our  horses  reared  and  the 
other  fell  heavily;  all  the  luggage  tumbled— the  way 
was  blocked !  We  were  sheltered  by  the  wagon  as  behind 
a  barricade,  pell-mell  with  the  fugitives.  Helia  had  not 
followed  us — she  was  not  there ! 

"  'Helia  is  lost!'  Phil  said  to  me.  Pressed  b"y  the 
crowd  as  he  was,  he  could  not  disengage  himself  to  go 
to  her  aid.  Through  an  opening  in  the  wagon  I  saw  her 
standing  alone.  She  had  not  had  time  to  take  shelter 
with  us.  Bullets  were  whistling  on  every  side.  I  no 
longer  knew  what  I  was  doing.  These  were  not  comic- 
opera  Turks,  with  gourds  for  helmets,  and  dressed  in 
gilded  rags.  They  were  men  armed  with  rifles  and 
daggers.  Everywhere  there  were  the  dead,  everywhere 
there  was  blood.  It  was  frightful ! 


THE  FIGHT  437 

"The  bullets  became  fewer— the  enemy  had  taken  to 
their  swords,  and  we  were  without  arms,  pressed  upon 
by  the  crowd  which  clung  to  our  garments. 

"Oh,  never  shall  I  forget  what  I  then  saw.  Helia, 
as  I  have  said,  was  alone,  facing  our  assailants.  There 
she  remained!  She  had  snatched  from  one  of  the  fugi- 
tives an  enormous  club.  The  enemy  drew  near.  A 
Turk  came  upon  her  and  was  already  stretching  out  his 
hand  to  seize  her  by  the  hair,  when  Helia  whirled  the 
club,  bringing  it  down  on  the  man  and  splitting  his  skull ! 
He  fell  and  Helia  put  her  foot  on  him. 

"As  the  man  was  falling  Helia  seized  his  rifle  and 
put  it  quickly  to  her  shoulder.  We  heard  two  reports, 
and  two  more  of  the  enemy  went  down. 

"All  this  passed  in  no  time  at  all.  Helia  seemed  like 
a  supernatural  being.  As  she  remained  standing  up- 
right, the  attack  wavered.  The  Turks  were  terror- 
stricken  at  this  young  maiden  whose  throat  they  had 
expected  to  cut  as  they  passed  by,  and  who  handled  these 
heavy  weapons  as  if  she  were  playing  with  them.  I 
heard  Helia  call  to  us ;  but  we  could  not  stir.  I  wept 
with  rage.  How  I  wished  to  be  beside  her !  She  whirled 
the  rifle  by  the  end  of  its  barrel ;  and  with  a  terrific  blow 
brought  down  the  breech  on  the  head  of  one  who  seemed 
the  leader.  They  fell  back  for  a  moment.  Meanwhile  we 
did  not  remain  idle ;  and  the  peasants  had  pulled  them- 
selves together.  Phil  and  I,  as  soon  as  we  had  got  our- 
selves loose,  jumped  on  the  wagon,  after  picking  up  rifles. 
Will  brought  back  the  soldiers ;  and  when  the  Turks,  mad 
with  rage,  and  sword  in  hand,  came  rushing  back  upon 
Helia — who  awaited  them  without  flinching — they  were 
welcomed  with  a  discharge  of  bullets  which  stopped  them 


438  FATA   MORGANA 

short.  Our  fears  were  over.  The  Turks  fled,  our  bullets 
striking  them  in  their  backs,  and  the  peasants  pursuing 
them  with  sticks  and  stones.  In  a  moment  the  bridge 
was  free.  Phil  had  not  quitted  me  for  an  instant.  He 
was  always  between  me  and  the  enemy,  and  superbly 
cool.  I  asked  him,  '  What  is  the  matter  with  Helia  ?  She 
seems  to  be  looking  for  death!'  It  is  certain  there  was 
something  like  despair  in  her  terrible  intrepidity.  Phil 
did  not  answer.  He  seemed  more  moved  than  herself. 
Just  then  I  had  no  time  to  go  into  the  question ;  all  of 
us  were  safe  and  sound ;  that  was  the  main  thing.  The 
Turks  had  fled  away,  and  would  not  soon  return.  We 
gathered  up  the  wounded.  Suzanne  was  everywhere  at 
once,  with  a  bottle  in  her  hand.  'Qui  veut  la  goutte,  les 
enfants?  Voild  la  petite  cantiniere!"  ['Who  wants  a 
drink,  children?  Here  's  the  cantiniere!']  The  bells  of 
the  Christian  village  rang  joyously,  and  the  cry  was  taken 
up,  and  grew  louder  and  louder:  'Morgana!  Morgana!' 
Helia  was  borne  in  triumph.  Women  knelt  down  as  she 
passed.  The  brave  girl  was  bleeding  a  little;  and  they 
gathered  the  drops  of  blood  on  pieces  torn  from  her  gown, 
like  the  relics  of  a  saint.  For  me,  I  was  happy  beyond 
expression.  I  kissed  her  cheeks  and  cried :  'Morgana  !' 

"'What!  you,  too,  Miss  Ethel!  But  I  have  done 
nothing!'  answered  Helia.  'I  did  my  part,  that  was 
all.' 

"Wagons  came  from  the  village,  and  we  put  the 
wounded  into  them.  One  who  spoke  Italian  told  us  the 
story.  The  Albanian  Moslems  for  a  long  time  had  been 
threatening  the  Christians.  They  demanded  a  thousand 
Turkish  pounds.  They  were  refused,  and  raided  the 


The  Return  to  the  City 


THE  FIGHT  441 

village  on  the  day  of  a  marriage,  when  every  one  was  at 
the  feast.  They  were  going  to  invade  the  district  of 
Morgania  where  the  victims  were  taking  refuge ;  but  this 
young  girl  had  saved  everything ! 

' '  Helia  had  her  gown  all  torn,  and  so  they  threw  over 
her  shoulders  the  mantle  of  the  village  bride.  Upon  her 
disheveled  hair  they  placed  the  red  symbolic  head-dress, 
with  its  golden  tassels. 

"  Helia 's  cart  was  at  the  head  of  the  convoy,  and 
the  other  wagons  followed,  filled  with  the  wounded. 
Phil  galloped  along  on  an  Albanian  horse  with  red-and- 
white  trappings.  Will  remained  in  the  village,  to  or- 
ganize the  resistance.  I  went  back  to  the  city  with  Su- 
zanne, on  Helia 's  cart. 

"It  was  a  triumphal  march.  All  these  poor  people 
and  ourselves,  whom  she  had  saved  from  massacre,  had 
eyes  only  for  her.  But  she  had  no  air  of  happiness! 
She  had  a  slight  wound  in  the  forehead.  From  time  to 
time  a  drop  of  blood  fell  on  her  gown  and  made  a  red 
stain.  This  streak  of  blood  marked  her  out  to  the  crowd. 
The  cheers  redoubled,  and  little  children  threw  kisses 
toward  her.  She  was  indifferent  to  it  all,  and  looked 
only  at  the  little  red  stain. 

"  'Oh,  my  pretty  gown,'  she  said,  'my  pretty  bridal 
gown  is  ruined ! ' 

"The  road  through  the  valley  is  much  shorter  than 
that  over  the  mountain.  We  were  to  get  to  the  city 
by  night,  just  before  day-dawn.  Oh,  what  a  vision, 
never  to  be  forgotten,  was  that  night  journey!  You 
cannot  believe  how  quickly  the  tidings  traveled,  in  this 
country  without  telegraphs  or  railroad.  Horsemen  went 


442  FATA  MORGANA 

galloping  before  us.  When  we  passed  through  a  village 
there  were  cries  of  joy  and  men  dancing  by  the  light 
of  torches.  Priests  bearing  golden  crosses  blessed  us  as 
we  passed.  Helia's  exploits  grew  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
and  this  explained  the  ever-increasing  enthusiasm.  She 
had  killed  eight  enemies  with  her  own  hand,  had  stopped 
the  invasion  and  saved  the  convoy  from  massacre !  At 
Gradiska  she  had  killed  twenty,  and  at  Kolo  more  still. 

"  'You  will  see/  Helia  said  to  me;  'by  the  time  we 
get  to  the  city  I  shall  have  killed  the  Grand  Vizir  and 
the  Sultan!' 

"Our  escort  kept  on  growing.  It  was  grand  when  we 
entered  the  city.  Helia  had  been  hoping  to  find  every 
one  asleep.  You  would  have  thought  you  were  going 
into  a  bee-hive!  They  wished  to  carry  Helia  in  tri- 
umph to  the  castle.  But  the  duke  was  not  there — he 
was  off  on  the  excursion  along  the  coast.  The  people 
will  never  pardon  him  for  not  having  been  present  to 
share  their  joy  and  cheer  the  heroine. 

"To  wind  up:  I  don't  know  how  we  did  it,  but  we 
got  back  to  the  yacht  all  the  same,  broken  and  bruised 
and  delighted,  deafened  by  the  cries,  and  blinded  by  the 
lights. 

"Every  one  is  resting  except  myself.  I  cannot  stay 
quiet,  and  I  profit  by  my  sleeplessness  to  write  you. 
Well,  what  did  I  tell  you?  Are  you  not  sorry  to  have 
missed  a  thing  like  that  ?  And  I  will  have  other  things 
to  tell  you  when  I  have  the  pleasure  to  see  you  again, 
my  dear  Yvonne.  .  .  . 

"P.  S.  The  heavens  are  mixing  themselves  up  in 
the  event.  You  have  heard  of  the  Fata  Morgana— that 


THE  FIGHT  443 

wonderful  mirage  effect  along  the  coast  of  the  Adriatic 
(it  comes  from  the  evaporation  of  hot  air  in  the  lower 
layers,  changing  refraction  to  reflection,  and  so  forth, 
and  so  forth;  but  people  here  simply  attribute  it  to  a 
fairy's  enchantments). 

"However  that  may  be,  I  am  finishing  this  letter  just 
as  the  sun  is  rising,  and  the  sky  is  marvelous.  I  am 
looking  at  great  streaks  of  blood  and  crumbling  towers 
and  golden  crowns— all  changing  form  every  moment. 
You  can  see  in  it  what  you  wish;  but,  always,  it  is 
beautiful." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   FATEFUL    DAY   BEGINS 

ETHEL  finished  her  letter,  and  went  up  on  deck  to 
find  grandma.  A  splendid  day  was  appearing, 
with  its  marvelous  light  flooding  space.  Morgana 
was  building  her  palaces  in  the  heavenly  azure.  Golden 
darts  across  battlemented  clouds  were  driving  away  the 
birds  of  night.  The  sun  rose  up,  enormous  in  size.  In 
front  of  the  yacht  the  city,  with  its  minarets  and  domes, 
showed  like  a  vision  of  the  Orient.  The  castle,  scarcely 
outlined,  seemed  floating  above  the  waters. 

"  Brave  Helia!  the  heavens  are  celebrating  her— how 
splendid  the  mirage  is,  grandma!"  said  Ethel. 

"You  see,  Ethel,"  Mrs.  Rowrer  remarked,  "mirages 
are  not  easily  appreciated  with  glasses.  At  my  age 
I  perceive  rather  the  chill  of  the  mist." 

"My  dear  grandma!"  said  Ethel,  as  she  kissed  her, 
"don't  you  think  that  what  Helia  did  was  simply 
grand?  Even  with  your  glasses  you  can  distinguish 
heroism.  Helia  is  what  I  call  a  woman!  When  I 
think  that  I  might  have  done  it— what  would  I  not  give 
to  be  in  her  place,  grandma!" 

"Are  you  jealous,  Ethel?" 

"Oh,  grandma!" 


THE  FATEFUL  DAY  BEGINS  445 

No ;  Ethel  was  not  jealous.  But  for  the  last  few  days 
nothing  had  gone  well  with  her.  She  was  not  like  Helia, 
who  had  so  many  reasons  to  be  joyful— and  who  yet 
was  sad.  Ethel  had  genuine  cares.  First,  she  had 
not  risen  to  the  mark  like  Helia;  next — and  oh,  what 
a  grudge  she  had  against  Will  for  it ! — when  she  saw 
the  poor  refugees  without  food  or  shelter,  she  re- 
marked to  her  brother  how  much  wretchedness  there 
was  to  comfort,  that  something  ought  to  be  done. 
It  would  even  be  an  acknowledgment  of  the  duke's 
hospitality. 

"It  's  already  done!"  was  Will's  answer.  "I  cabled 
from  the  city  yesterday ;  one  of  our  freight  steamers  will 
quit  Odessa  at  once  with  grain  and  food." 

' '  There  I  am ! "  Ethel  said,  in  comic  despair. 

Ethel  looked  far  off  at  the  city  and  castle,  for  the 
yacht  had  taken  to  the  open  on  account  of  drifting  cur- 
rents. She  was  thinking  of  Morgania.  The  manner  in 
which  the  duke  would  understand  his  duty  under  the 
present  circumstances  would  be  a  standard  by  which  to 
judge  the  man. 

That  the  duke  had  stayed  on  in  Paris  when  he  ought 
to  have  been  in  Morgania — that  she  could  willingly  for- 
give, since  it  was  for  her  that  he  stayed.  But  that  now 
he  should  be  brave,  loyal  to  his  people,  with  a  burning 
zeal  for  progress  and  all  that  is  good — that  would  be 
more  pleasing  to  her  than  all  his  attentions. 

"What  is  the  matter,  grandma?  You  have  some- 
thing on  your  mind,"  said  Ethel  to  her  grandmother, 
who  was  looking  toward  the  mountains. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  grandma.     "I  was  thinking  of 


446  FATA  MORGANA 

Will,  who  is  over  there,  and  fearing  some  accident  might 
happen  to  him." 

"Just  now  he  risks  nothing,"  said  Ethel.  "It  is  all 
enthusiasm  among  the  people.  Will  is  to  take  the 
most  pressing  measures.  The  enemy  is  sure  to  return, 
but  the  duke  will  be  ready— unless  he  wastes  too  much 
time. ' ' 

They  heard  the  stroke  of  oars,  and  a  small  boat  came 
alongside. 

"  I  'm  sure  it  's  the  duke  coming  to  congratulate  us, ' ' 
said  Ethel.  "He  must  have  returned — and  you  '11  see, 
grandma,  he  will  thank  me  for  saving  Morgania,  and 
will  put  his  heart  at  my  feet!  He  will  say  the  people 
wish  me,  that  they  are  crying  for  me!  Watch  him, 
grandma,  when  I  tell  him  that  it  is  not  I,  it  is  Helia! 
You  '11  see  his  expression:  'Helia!  hum — hum — charm- 
ing, very  charming,  but,  really — ' 

"You  judge  the  duke  wrongly,  Ethel." 

"She  's  right,  all  the  same!"  thought  Suzanne. 

"The  duke  knows  what  he  's  about,  grandma!  But 
it  is  not  he, ' '  she  said,  looking  over  at  the  boat.  ' '  They 
are  two — in  long  coats!  That  's  not  local  color." 

"They  are  my  two  bears— Zrnitschka,  Bjelopawlitji! 
Sauve  qui  pent!"  Suzanne  muttered  to  herself. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  two  delegates.  They  had  been 
chosen  because  they  were  accustomed  to  diplomatic  mis- 
sions ;  and,  moreover,  they  spoke  French. 

They  came  up — bent  themselves  double. 

They  presented  the  duke 's  excuses.  ' '  Monseigneur  was 
unable  to  come — he  was  presiding  at  the  Assembly  of 
Notables  with  Monseigneur  Adalbert." 


The  Delegates 


THE  FATEFUL  DAY  BEGINS  449 

"Ah,  by  the  way,"  said  grandma,  "how  is  the  little 
fellow?  and  Sceurette?" 

"Monseigneur  Adalbert  is  well — and  the  little  girl  also. 
They  're  playing  together  on  the  terrace  all  the  time. ' ' 

Then  the  delegates  explained  their  mission.  They  had 
come  to  invite  the  heroine  to  land  in  the  evening.  The 
people  were  preparing  a  monster  welcome  for  her.  Im- 
mense crowds  were  coming  in  from  all  parts.  Nothing 
like  it  had  been  seen  in  the  memory  of  man.  Monsei- 
gneur,  the  duke,  would  remain  to  give  orders,  that  all 
might  be  worthy  of  the  expected  guest.  The  duke  begged 
Miss  Rowrer  to  be  present  with  him  afterward  at  the 
reception  in  the  throne-room— and  he  laid  his  heart  at 
her  feet. 

"There— just  as  I  thought!"  was  Ethel's  reflection. 
"The  duke  believes  it  was  I!" 

Ethel  turned  to  Suzanne:  "Ask  Mile.  Helia— or, 
rather,  no !  it  's  useless  to  ask  her ;  she  would  not  come — 
I  know  her !  But  she  will  not  refuse  it  to  me  as  a  ser- 
vice," she  argued  within  herself,  "we  will  go  together, 
with  Helia  at  the  head.  She  shall  have  her  triumph  this 
evening. ' ' 

Suzanne  showed  signs  of  trouble.  The  delegates  had 
recognized  her  and  bowed  low.  The  name  "Helia" 
struck  them.  It  came  back  with  the  memories  of  their 
strange  diplomatic  soiree. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  Ethel  asked  Suzanne,  sharply. 
' '  Do  you  know  them  ? ' ' 

"No— that  is— yes!"  answered  Suzanne. 

"Really,  is  it  yes  or  no?" 

"Eh  lien,  yes." 


450  FATA  MORGANA 

" Where  did  you  see  them?  At  Paris?— at  the  duke's 
place?" 

' '  At  the  duke 's — yes — that  is — no !  It  was  one  evening 
when  Mademoiselle  Helia — " 

"Do  they  know  Helia?" 

"No!— or,  rather—" 

"Or  rather  yes?"  interrupted  Ethel. 

"I  am  trying  to  tell  you—' 

"Good— you  '11  tell  me  later." 

The  delegates  thought  they  were  talking  of  the  even- 
ing reception. 

"Messieurs,"  Ethel  said  to  them,  "it  is  understood. 
Thank  the  duke — I  shall  be  there  at  the  appointed 
hour." 

The  delegates  bowed,  and  Ethel  accompanied  them  to 
the  rail. 

"Be  careful  not  to  fall,  M.  Zrnitschka,  M.  Bjelopaw- 
litji !  See,  messieurs,"  she  added,  pointing  to  a  tarpaulin 
which  they  were  arranging  at  the  yacht 's  side,  ' '  that  is  a 
bath-room— it  's  a  tropical  invention.  The  tarpaulin  is 
held  by  bars  stretched  out  on  the  top  of  the  water  and 
making  a  rigid  square.  It  's  a  genuine  bath-tub,  five 
meters  long  and  wide,  and  four  feet  deep.  That  does  not 
prevent  me  from  jumping  over  it  when  I  wish,  and  I  take 
a  little  turn  in  the  open.  That  is  the  real  bath-tub  for 
me ! "  And  she  pointed  to  the  sea. 

Ethel  could  not  keep  her  face  straight  at  the  fright- 
ened look  of  the  delegates,  who  kept  on  bowing  and  bow- 
ing as  they  clambered  down  the  steps. 

' '  What  ought  I  to  say  ? ' '  Suzanne  was  thinking  within 
herself.  She  would  have  to  tell  all  the  stories  about  the 


THE   FATEFUL  DAY  BEGINS  451 

duke  and  Helia,  and  perhaps  about  Phil, — "and  I  who 
don't  know  how  to  lie!" 

Ethel  quietly  took  her  seat  by  grandma,  without  speak- 
ing to  Suzanne  of  anything  at  all. 

"It  's  Helia 's  day,"  she  thought.  "It  would  be  bad 
taste  to  crush  the  brave  young  girl  with  my  dresses 
when  she  has  only  simple  things." 

"Very  well,  Suzanne,"  Ethel  said  aloud.  "I  do  not 
need  you  for  the  present.  See  that  everything  is  ready 
for  this  evening— a  simple  street-gown." 

Ethel's  curiosity,  however,  had  been  excited.  What 
could  there  have  been  in  common  between  the  duke  and 
Helia  and  Suzanne?  She  now  remembered  a  few  pass- 
ing words.  Caracal  had  finally  told  her  his  story  of  the 
Louvre  gardener,  and  Adam  and  Eve.  She  recalled  his 
expressions.  Phil  never  spoke  to  her  of  Helia,  although 
he  recounted  willingly  the  adventures  of  his  youth. 
Against  this  were  his  occasional  embarrassment,  certain 
hidden  allusions,  and  his  salon  portrait  of  the  young  girl 
in  the  midst  of  flowers  surrounded  by  a  flight  of  doves ; 
and  then,  why  should  Phil,  only  yesterday,  have  dropped 
his  eyes  and  blushed  at  the  mad  bravery  of  Helia?  Did 
he,  then,  know  the  secret  of  it  ? 

It  was  not  pleasant  to  Ethel  to  go  into  such  ques- 
tions. Helia 's  melancholy,  and  her  daring,  her  seeking 
for  death  when  she  was  only  twenty— it  was  not  natural ! 
Miss  Rowrer  did  not  need  to  know  more.  She  understood 
all,  so  she  believed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FATA   MORGANA   TO   THE  RESCUE! 

ETER  in  the  day  Suzanne  appeared,  and  timidly 
begged  Miss  Rowrer  to  excuse  her.  ' '  Mademoiselle 
Helia  has  gone  from  the  tarpaulin — she  is  swim- 
ming straight  for  the  cliff.  If  Miss  Rowrer  would  be  good 
enough  to  go  on  deck,  perhaps  Mademoiselle  Helia—  "  As 
for  her,  Suzanne,  she  could  do  nothing — she  had  called  in 
vain. 

Miss  Rowrer  followed  Suzanne,  but  Helia  was  already 
far  away. 

' '  She  would  not  listen  to  me, ' '  said  Suzanne.  ' '  I  don 't 
know  what  came  over  her." 

' '  But  where  is  she  going  ? ' ' 

' '  To  the  rocks  off  there,  Miss  Rowrer. ' ' 

Suzanne  pointed  to  the  shoals  on  which  the  sea  was 
breaking. 

"Well,"  Ethel  said,  to  quiet  Suzanne,  "Helia  is  not 
lost.  If  I  had  been  on  the  deck  I  would  have  asked  her 
not  to  do  it.  But  one  who  swims  as  she  does  has  nothing 
to  fear.  I  only  hope  she  won't  delay,  so  as  to  be  back  in 
time  for  the  evening's  reception." 

' '  If  only  she  comes  back  ! ' ' 

"Oh,  now!  it  's  only  child's  play  for  her,"  said  Miss 
Rowrer,  following  with  her  glass  Helia 's  movements. 
452 


FATA  MORGANA  TO   THE  RESCUE!  453 

For  any  one  else  than  Helia  the  undertaking  would 
have  been  hazardous,  because  of  the  eddies  among  the 
rocks.  She  might  also  hit  against  some  point  just  hidden 
beneath  the  water.  There  was  a  striking  contrast  be- 
tween the  immense  cliff  and  the  almost  imperceptible 
swimmer,  who  was  going  farther  and  farther  away. 

The  marvelous  sky  had  become  more  magnificent  still. 
The  sea  was  resplendent,  and  now  and  then  a  luminous 
wake  showed  behind  Helia ;  and  then  it  would  suddenly 
be  quenched  in  the  blackness  of  the  shoal  water. 

''How  little  Helia  seems  in  all  that  immensity!"  Ethel 
said  to  Phil,  who  had  joined  her. 

"She  has  reached  the  rocks— she  is  going  up  them," 
said  Phil. 

1 '  Oh !  never  fear  for  her ;  I  understand  what  urges  her 
on :  it  is  still  that  love  of  danger  which  made  her  heroic 
yesterday.  Have  no  fear  for  Helia,"  Ethel  said  to  Su- 
zanne, as  she  gave  her  the  glass.  "If  I  thought  there 
was  the  least  danger,  I  would  send  out  the  boat;  but  I 
think  she— she  wishes  to  be  alone;  we  will  respect  her 
desire." 

That  day  Ethel  had  a  thousand  things  to  do :  letters 
to  write ;  her  preparations  for  the  evening ;  to  choose  the 
music  which  was  to  be  played  on  board  during  the  re- 
ception on  land.  Especially  there  was  an  old-time 
melody  which  she  had  heard  Helia  singing  in  a  low  voice 
in  her  cabin.  Ethel  had  a  muffled  rehearsal  of  it  in  the 
forecastle.  She  wished  to  keep  it  as  a  surprise  for  Helia 
in  the  evening,  when  she  should  enter  the  throne-room. 
She  counted  greatly  on  the  effect ;  the  music  would  come 
in  waves  mingled  with  the  sea-breeze,  filling  the  night 


454  FATA  MORGANA 

with  harmony  and  encircling  Helia  with  her  favorite 
melody.  There  were  also  flowers  to  bring  and  other 
orders  to  give. 

While  they  were  thus  making  ready  her  triumph, 
Helia,  who  was  now  stretched  out  on  the  seaweed  amid 
the  rocks,  dreamed,  with  her  mind  far  away.  The  effort 
she  had  made  and  the  coolness  of  the  water  had  calmed 
her.  The  ardent  light  shone  on  her  damp  neck  and  arms 
as  on  rose-colored  marble.  The  wet  bathing-dress  clung 
to  her  round  limbs,  and  her  heavy  hair  rolled  over  her 
shoulders.  She  was  like  a  dreaming  Naiad  clinging  to  the 
sharp  rocks  above  a  sunken  Atlantis. 

All  around  her  the  sky  heaped  up  tumultuous  splendor. 
Fata  Morgana  was  disporting  herself  in  the  burning 
mists. 

Helia  looked  at  the  glowing  apotheosis  so  far  above 
her,  as  inaccessible  as  her  dream.  Then  her  eyes  fell 
.to  the  craggy  ruins  so  much  more  in  harmony  with  her 
thoughts.  The  green  light  upon  the  sea  was  reflected 
in  her  clear  eyes.  Beneath  the  transparent  waters  she 
could  perceive  a  strange  vegetation  gently  waving  its 
leaves.  Ah,  how  well  one  might  rest  down  there,  lying 
on  the  golden  sands  amid  flowers  which  seemed  alive ! 

Suddenly  Helia  blushed  for  herself — no !  away  with 
the  ugly  thought!  All  her  pride  revolted  against  it. 
Keally,  she  was  going  mad !  This  idle,  artificial  life  had 
been  gnawing  at  her  ever  since  she  had  come  on  the 
yacht.  What  was  she  doing  with  these  happy  ones  of  the 
earth,  in  the  midst  of  their  luxury?  She  saw  clearly 
that  Phil  and  Miss  Rowrer  were  made  for  each  other. 
No,  she  would  not  go  to  America  to  be  exposed  to  such 


FATA  MORGANA  TO  THE  RESCUE!  455 

continual  torture  as  the  sight  of  their  love  would  be — 
to  see  Phil  living  serenely  on,  without  remorse  and  with- 
out regret.  She  must  escape  as  soon  as  possible  from 
him,  and  go  back  to  her  dressing-room,  smelling  of  pat- 
chouli, and  adorned  with  its  broken  mirror.  There,  at 
least,  she  would  feel  at  home ! 

Helia,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sea,  was  building 
a  hundred  schemes.  First  of  all,  one  thing  was  certain. 
She  would  now  dare  to  attempt  feats  which  she  had 
never  done  before — which  no  one  had  ever  done  before. 
She  might  break  her  neck— well,  it  would  be  dying  on 
the  field  of  honor! 

Her  success  should  be  dazzling.  She  would  conquer 
New  York,  London,  and  Berlin.  They  would  cover  her 
with  flowers,  which  she  would  crush  beneath  her  feet 
as  she  retired  behind  the  scenes.  She  would  turn  her 
back  on  the  hall  thundering  with  bravos,  and  would 
answer  to  her  calls  not  by  a  flip-flap  entrance  like  some 
peasant  mountebank !  No,  she  would  find  some  un- 
heard-of feat  to  make  the  hall  grow  pale  with  fright. 
Ah!  she  was  not  good  for  love;  they  would  see  what 
she  was  worth  for  terror! 

Her  brain  went  on  inventing  exercises  and  seeing 
movements,  composing  sensational  numbers.  She  would 
have  all  the  managers  at  her  feet— Barrasford,  in 
England,  and  Krokowski,  in  St.  Petersburg.  At  Mos- 
cow the  Boyards  should  offer  her  diamonds,  and  she 
would  throw  them  back  into  their  faces !  She  would  be 
an  artiste,  only  an  artiste,  the  greatest  artiste  of  all 
time!  She  would  not  be  of  those  who  are  afraid  to 
spoil  their  beauty  or  tear  their  maillots  at  the  trapeze. 


456  FATA  MORGANA 

She  would  have  the  number  preceded  by  orchestral  si- 
lences, suddenly  breaking  like  a  thunder-storm.  She 
alone  would  do  more  than  all  the  others,  more  than  the 
Alexes  and  the  Hanlons,  more  than  fifty  Leamy  sisters. 
And  on  the  tight-rope  she  would  do  more  than  the 
Omers,  on  her  hands  more  than  Bartholdi,  on  the  car- 
pet more  than  the  Kremos  or  Scheffers!  She  could  see 
herself,  to  the  roaring  of  the  band,  with  the  crowd  be- 
neath her  feet — the  crowd  of  lying  mouths,  of  soft  and 
cowardly  hearts;  and  she  would  cast  at  them  a  look  of 
scorn  while  taking  her  flight  to  the  roof. 

She  would  have  posters  on  all  the  walls  in  the  least 
village  town — a  Gymnast,  in  England;  a  Gymnasiarque, 
in  France ;  in  Germany,  a  Bravourturnerin, — great 
posters  to  dazzle  the  Ochsenmaulsalatsf  abrikanten ! 
That  would  be  fortune  and  glory!  Oh,  what  a  dog's 
life !  How  could  a  man  like  Phil  live  with  falsehood  in 
his  heart,  and  never  a  word  of  excuse  ?  She  would  have 
given  him  up,  she  would  have  understood !  She  was 
not  made  for  him;  so  be  it.  Phil  could  not  give  Miss 
Rowrer  a  rival  like  Helia— no !  He  had  only  to  ask  her 
pardon  to  obtain  it — a  kind  word,  and  a  kiss,  and 
good-by.  But  no !  there  was  not  even  that.  Ah,  Phil, 
Phil;  he  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  give  her  back 
her  word ! 

Helia 's  fever  had  passed,  and  her  dreams  were  calmed. 
She  felt  herself  very  lowly  and  little,  crushed  at  the 
foot  of  the  cliff — herself  like  a  bit  of  jetsam  amid  the 
broken  fragments  of  the  rock.  She  dipped  her  hand  in 
the  water  and  amused  herself  by  letting  it  run  out  be- 
tween her  fingers  in  a  shining  shower.  Or,  again,  she 


"  '  Help  me  ! '  he  cried ' 


FATA  MORGANA  TO  THE  RESCUE!  459 

plunged  her  arms  to  the  bottom,  tearing  up  the  sea- 
flowers,  the  dainty  algse,  and  placing  them  in  her  hair, 
mingling  them  with  the  unbound  tresses.  Then  she 
bent  over,  to  look  at  herself  in  the  water,  like  a  child. 

"I  am  really  like  the  Morgana  in  Phil's  picture,"  she 
thought. 

Meanwhile,  even  in  the  little  creek  where  Helia  was 
looking  at  herself,  the  water  had  grown  less  calm,  and 
a  current  was  rushing  out  to  the  open  sea.  Helia  stood, 
stretched  her  limbs,  and  looked  at  the  yacht. 

"Come!"  she  said  to  herself,  "en  route!  It  is  time 
to  go!" 

She  was  just  taking  her  spring  when  she  stopped 
short,  listening.  Uncertain  cries  were  borne  in  to  her 
on  the  breeze.  They  came  from  the  shore.  All  that  part 
of  the  bay,  and  the  castle  itself,  were  hidden  from  her  by 
a  wall  of  cliffs. 

"What  can  be  the  matter?"  she  asked  herself.  "Are 
those  cries  of  distress?" 

Just  then,  a  little  boat  with  a  child  for  its  sole  pas- 
senger floated  out  before  her,  amid  the  shoals,  borne  on 
by  the  ebbing  current. 

The  child  had  let  drop  the  oars.  He  was  holding 
with  both  hands  to  the  boat's  gunwale  and  looking  out 
to  sea  with  his  eyes  dilated  with  fear. 

"Help  me!  "he  cried. 

It  was  the  little  Duke  Adalbert. 

The  boy  had  been  kept  awake  the  night  before  by  the 
cries  of  "Morgana!"  Confounding  reality  with  legend, 
he  had  resolved  to  go  to  the  yacht  which  was  in  the  bay ; 
and  there  he  would  see  once  more  that  beautiful  maiden 


460  FATA  MORGANA 

whom  Phil  had  painted.  He  came  down  to  the  foot  of 
the  castle,  and  loosened  the  boat  from  the  old  ring  in  the 
wall  to  which  it  was  fastened.  Alone  he  set  out  to  the 
open  sea.  They  had  seen  him  too  late ;  the  current  had 
seized  the  boat,  and  the  little  duke  was  lost ! 

Just  then  a  violent  shock  capsized  the  boat  on  a  rock 
almost  level  with  the  surface  and  threw  the  child  into 
the  water.  As  he  disappeared  beneath  the  foam  he  lifted 
his  arms  to  heaven  with  a  supreme  appeal :  "St.  Mor- 
gana, save  me!" 

"Adalbert,  Monseigneur  Adalbert!"  cried  Helia,  rec- 
ognizing him,  "fear  nothing,  I  am  here!" 

It  was  the  affair  of  a  moment,  and  with  a  daring  dive, 
in  which  she  risked  dashing  herself  against  a  rock,  Helia 
grasped  the  boy  beneath  the  waves  and  brought  him 
back,  fainting,  to  the  light  of  day. 

"What  anxiety  they  must  be  having  on  shore!" 
thought  Helia.  "What  must  be  the  duke's  despair! 
They  must  think  the  child  is  drowned,  that  there  is  no 
possible  remedy;  perhaps  there  is  not  a  single  boat  in 
the  port !  Now,  then,  Helia,  courage !  You  've  done 
harder  things  than  this  in  your  life.  Into  the  sea  and 
take  back  monseigneur ! ' ' 

Helia  was  standing  on  the  rock,  with  the  boy  in  her 
arms.  At  a  glance,  she  saw  that  the  water  of  the  dif- 
ferent currents  was  colored  differently.  That  which 
came  from  the  shore  was  muddy  and  yellow  with  sand ; 
that  from  the  deep  sea  was  dark  green.  Into  this,  with- 
out hesitation,  Helia  threw  herself,  holding  Adalbert  on 
one  arm,  and  swimming  with  the  other,  in  superb  effort. 

As  soon  as  she  had  turned  the  cliff,  she  saw  the  crowd 


FATA  MORGANA  TO  THE  RESCUE  461 

on  the  shore,  close  to  the  water,  very  far  away.  They, 
too,  now  saw  her,  for  a  great  cry  reached  her  ear.  It 
strengthened  and  comforted  her. 

She  was  crossing  an  eddy  full  of  seaweed  torn  away 
by  the  currents,  from  which  she  could  issue  with  dif- 
ficulty. If  the  boy  had  come  to  himself,  they  would  both 
have  been  lost.  Luckily,  he  remained  inert,  with  his  head 
on  Helia's  shoulder.  Slowly  she  disengaged  herself  and 
kept  on  her  way  toward  the  shore. 

Now  there  was  a  deep  silence.  She  could  see  the  mul- 
titude nearer.  She  could  distinguish  details— women 
praying  on  their  knees,  and  groups  crowding  toward 
the  sea.  They  ought  to  come  out  to  her,  instead  of  re- 
maining there  motionless !  But  everybody  seemed  struck 
powerless  by  amazement.  The  setting  sun  behind  her 
was  doubtless  dazzling  their  eyes,  for  a  strange  glow, 
all  red  and  gold,  lighted  up  the  city.  Weariness  over- 
whelmed her, — could  she  ever  reach  the  shore?  The 
child's  weight  exhausted  Helia.  Truly,  the  people  must 
be  stupid  not  to  come  out  to  her.  Could  no  one  see  that 
she  was  tired — that  all  her  strength  had  been  taken — 
that  she  could  do  no  more? 

Soon  she  felt  the  sand  beneath  her  feet.  She  was  still 
far  from  the  shore,  but  the  beach  sank  away  very  slowly, 
and,  half  walking  and  half  swimming,  she  kept  advanc- 
ing. Now  it  was  easier  for  her;  the  water  was  only 
breast-high.  She  advanced  steadily,  lifting  Adalbert 
in  her  arms  as  if  to  say:  "He  is  saved!  Here  he  is! 
Come  and  take  him ! ' ' 

But  while  she  kept  on  advancing,  no  one  came  to- 
ward her. 


462  FATA   MORGANA 

"What  is  the  matter  with  them?"  thought  Helia. 
"They  do  not  stir — they  are  recoiling  even,  as  I  go  to- 
ward them.  What  is  it  frightens  them  so  ? " 

Instinctively,  Helia  turned  her  head.  She  saw  only 
the  waste  sea  and  the  great  marvelous  sky,  with  its 
depths  of  purple  and  gold,  and  immense  crimson  cloud 
forming  an  arch  above  her. 

When  Helia  first  appeared,  the  people  had  given  a 
great  cry,  and  then  there  was  silence.  A  thrill  ran 
through  the  multitude.  "Who  is  coming  thus  from  the 
open  sea?  What  wonderful  being  have  our  cries  of 
terror  awakened?" 

They  saw  the  superb"  maiden  issuing  from  the  waves 
and  bringing  back  in  her  arms  the  little  Duke  Adalbert, 
Morgania's  hope.  What  if  it  were  she — Morgana! — 
bringing  back  fortune  and  the  future  ?  Would  it  not  b'e 
the  complete  accomplishing  of  the  prophecy  at  the  date 
announced  and  foretold? 

Helia  was  moved  at  the  terrified  aspect  of  the  people, 
with  their  mute  faces  fixed  upon  her,  with  their  ecstatic 
eyes.  The  crowd  drew  aside  at  her  approach,  and  a 
great  empty  circle  opened  wide  around  her. 

Helia  stopped.  The  water  reached  her  knees.  At 
this  spot  the  sea  was  as  placid  as  a  lake,  and  the  beach 
was  as  smooth  as  a  floor.  Only  two  or  three  moss-grown 
rocks  lifted  their  heads  above  the  water.  Helia  would 
have  shown  herself  in  a  maillot  unhesitatingly  before 
a  million  men,  but  she  was  greatly  embarrassed  where 
she  was,  half  naked,  and  with  her  wet  costume  clinging 
to  her  body. 

Seeing  that  no  one  came  to  her  assistance,  she  placed 


FATA  MORGANA  TO  THE  RESCUE!  463 

the  little  duke  gently  on  the  mossy  rock  and  took  her 
resolution.  She  would  return  to  the  yacht  by  the  cur- 
rent leading  out  to  sea.  She  was  again  fit  and  rested 
by  her  walk  over  the  sands.  Moreover,  rid  of  the  child's 
weight,  it  would  be  no  more  than  play  for  her. 

Helia,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  crowd,  pointed  to  the 
child  with  her  hand,  and  retired  slowly  backward. 
When  the  water  reached  her  waist  she  swam  out  vigor- 
ously toward  the  yacht.  The  dazzling  sun  still  kindled 
the  sea,  flooding  everything  with  its  flames  of  crimson. 
They  could  not  see  her  from  the  shore  in  such  a  rush  of 
splendor  from  heaven ;  and  while  she  went  on  and  on, 
just  as  the  sun  was  sinking  below  the  horizon,  an  im- 
mense clamor  came  out  to  her,  magnified  by  the  echoes, 
like  mysterious  voices  issuing  from  plains  and  moun- 
tains. 

It  was  the  people  on  the  shore  acclaiming  Morgana! 


CHAPTER  IX 

STRICKEN  IN  TRIUMPH 

HELIA  was  far  away,  swimming  toward  the  yacht, 
before  the  duke  came  down  from  the  castle 
where  he  was  presiding  at  the  reception  of  the 
notables.  At  the  time  when  the  child  was  carried  away  by 
the  current  no  one  dared  tell  the  duke  the  terrible  news ; 
but  now  the  cries  of  enthusiasm  grew  and  grew.  Adal- 
bert was  saved !  When  the  father  clasped  his  child  in  his 
arms  upon  the  beach,  he  all  but  fainted  with  joy. 

Adalbert,  coming  out  of  his  swoon,  kissed  his  father, 
and  looked  around  him  to  find  some  one.  The  people 
cried:  "Miracle!"  As  for  the  duke,  he  did  not  see 
where  the  miracle  was.  Only  Miss  Rowrer,  so  he 
thought,  could  have  had  the  pluck  to  do  yesterday's 
deed  at  the  Drina;  and  she  alone  would  be  capable  of 
taking  the  bay  for  her  bath-tub,  as  the  delegates  had 
told  him.  No  doubt  she  had  been  on  some  rock  near  the 
place  where  Adalbert's  boat  had  capsized. 

What  means  had  he  for  acknowledging  the  immense 
service  she  had  now  rendered  him?  It  was  a  unique 
occasion,  and  the  duke  resolved  to  grasp  it  for  express- 
ing his  gratitude  to  Miss  Rowrer.  Listening  to  his  heart, 


STRICKEN  IN  TRIUMPH  465 

rather  than  to  his  reason,  he  bound  himself  by  oaths  to 
do  so  in  presence  of  his  people. 

' '  I  know  not  who  it  is  that  yesterday  saved  hundreds 
of  my  subjects ;  I  know  not  who  it  is  that  but  now  has 
saved  my  son.  Never  has  a  duchess  done  so  much  for 
our  country.  We  might  think  it  was  Morgana  herself, 
whom  our  legends  have  announced.  Please  God  she  may 
be  free  and  may  deign  to  accept  my  hand  and  share  my 
throne.  We  have  need  of  so  valiant  a  duchess ! ' ' 

The  notables  took  up  the  acclaim : ' ' Long  live  the  duch- 
ess !  Long  live  Morgana ! ' ' 

The  people  continued  thronging  the  beach,  waiting 
for  the  coming  of  the  "duchess,"  as  they  already  called 
her,  and  talking  over  the  words  of  the  duke,  who  in  a 
moment's  time  had  won  back  his  popularity. 

When  their  first  emotion  had  passed,  this  rude  popu- 
lace understood  full  well  that  Morgana  and  the  beauti- 
ful heroine  of  the  Drina  must  be  one  of  the  foreigners 
come  lately  from  beyond  the  seas  in  the  white  ship. 
They  repeated  over  to  each  other  how  much  the  country 
already  owed  her.  Legends  began  to  form  about  her. 
They  spoke  of  a  coming  distribution  of  food  and  cloth- 
ing to  the  crowd  of  refugees.  One  might  have  thought 
she  had  come  expressly  to  fulfil  the  people's  desire  and 
stir  them  with  new  hope.  The  duke  saw  all  this  enthu- 
siasm for  the  "foreign  lady"  running  onward  like  a 
flame ;  and  his  heart  swelled  with  joy.  A  whole  people 
would  express  his  love  and  speak  for  him,  crying  from 
the  depths  of  their  hearts:  "We  love  you!  Be  our 
duchess ! ' ' 

And  he,  the  duke,  as  he  had  sworn  in  presence  of  his 


466  FATA  MORGANA 

assembled  people,  would  say  to  Miss  Rowrer:  "You  have 
saved  my  country  and  my  son :  will  you  not  stay  in  Mor- 
gania,  to  be  the  pride  and  the  happiness  of  my  house?" 

The  events  upon  the  Drina,  and  that  mysterious  sym- 
pathy which  grows  in-  popular  crises,  had  shaken  the 
whole  country.  The  prophecies  of  the  sorceress  had 
been  realized  point  by  point.  Even  in  the  remotest 
mountains  the  shepherds  spoke  among  themselves  of  this 
woman,  so  young  and  beautiful,  who  was  invulnerable, 
and  whose  heroism  had  repulsed  the  enemy.  The  vil- 
lages were  excited ;  and  men  reached  the  city  with  their 
rifles  on  their  shoulders.  Everywhere,  it  was  one  long 
acclamation  for  Morgana.  The  peddlers  of  pious  pic- 
tures went  here  and  there  with  icons  in  their  mules' 
harness  and  singing  in  her  honor  heroic  prismes.  As  if 
every  one  were  waiting  for  coming  events,  the  mountain 
tracks  and  paths  across  the  plain  were  filled  on  every 
side  with  an  enthusiastic  crowd. 

That  very  evening  the  duke  was  to  receive  the  "duch- 
ess" amid  his  people's  acclaim.  Great  bonfires  were  to 
be  lighted  on  the  mountain-peaks  at  the  moment  of  her 
disembarking,  and  from  one  mountain  to  the  other, 
by  signal  from  the  city,  the  flames  should  announce  her 
coming.  The  sorceress,  in  the  depths  of  her  grotto, 
should  see  at  her  feet  the  night  flaming  up  like  the  dawn. 

On  the  beach,  where  Morgana  had  brought  the  faint- 
ing boy,  they  built  up  hastily  a  rough  landing-place. 
They  wished  her  coming  to  be  at  the  very  spot  where  she 
had  appeared  in  her  glory ;  and  they  strewed  leaves  and 
flowers  along  the  way  which  she  should  follow  to  the 
Hall  of  Ancestors.  Never  had  so  violent  and  sudden 


1  The  peddler  of  pious  pictures 


STRICKEN  IN  TRIUMPH  469 

a  movement  upset  Morgania.  The  acclaim  which  would 
salute  the  "Lady"  would  be  irresistible.  It  would 
issue  from  the  whole  people;  and  the  duke,  swept  on 
by  a  current  stronger  than  himself,  would  only  have  to 
let  events  find  a  way  for  themselves. 

Everybody  was  stirred,  even  Caracal,  who  was  in  the 
company  of  the  duke,  when  a  cannon-shot,  as  had  been 
agreed,  announced  from  the  castle  the  arrival  of  the  boat 
bringing  the  "duchess."  The  crowd  stood  in  rows  on 
each  side  of  the  way.  The  duke,  at  the  head  of  the  body 
of  notables,  stood  alone. 

Behind  him  the  voivodes,  in  their  glittering  costume, 
formed  their  lines,  belted  for  war  and  sword  in  hand. 

After  the  duke's  words  of  welcome,  the  heroic  maiden 
was  to  pass  beneath  an  archway  of  these  swords  crossed 
above  her,  like  Maria  Theresa  between  her  Magyars; 
and,  as  she  issued  from  beneath  their  deadly  glitter, 
joyous  hymns  would  break  forth,  and  little  children 
strew  flowers  before  her  as  a  symbol  of  days  of  hap- 
piness after  days  of  battle.  Then  would  begin  the  tri- 
umphal march  toward  the  Hall  of  the  Throne. 

All  hearts  were  beating,  for  now  they  could  perceive 
the  boat  coming  toward  them.  Caracal  fixed  his  mon- 
ocle, like  the  powerful  and  subtle  observer  that  he  was, 
and  made  ready  to  note  everything. 

Religious  silence  took  the  place  of  the  tumult  of  voices. 
They  could  see  distinctly  in  the  boat  two  young  women 
holding  each  other  by  the  hand.  Each  of  them  was 
dressed  with  great  simplicity:  it  was  Helia  and  Ethel. 
The  light  of  the  torches  flashed  vividly  upon  them.  They 
seemed  to  rise  out  of  the  night;  and  when  the  sailors 

25 


470  FATA  MORGANA 

lifted  their  oars  to  disembark  them  on  the  landing  where 
the  duke  was  waiting,  there  was  not  a  gesture,  not  a  cry. 
The  people  heeded  only  them.  No  attention  was  given  to 
the  two  personages  following  them,  a  young  girl  and  a 
young  man — Suzanne  and  Phil. 

The  duke  bowed  low  before  Ethel,  taking  her  hand 
with  an  impassioned  and  reverent  gesture.  Then  he 
spoke.  Those  who  were  near  him  could  hear  his  voice 
tremble. 

"How  am  I  to  thank  you,  Miss  Rowrer,  you  who  have 
saved  my  son!  Morgania  also  owes  you  everything; 
without  you  I  know  the  villayets  of  Albania  would  have 
arisen.  Everything  was  ready  to  crush  us!  But  the 
defeat  of  the  enemy,  exaggerated  from  mouth  to  mouth, 
has  taken  on  proportions  of  a  disaster !  You  have  done 
what,  before  you,  my  ancestresses,  Thilda,  Rhoda'is,  and 
Bertha,  did ;  and  like  Morgana  herself  you  have  brought 
back  in  your  arms  the  luck  of  Morgania,  my  son  Adal- 
bert! Behold  all  this  people:  for  them  you  are  she 
whom  our  legends  of  a  thousand  years  announce !  Miss 
Rowrer,  I  owe  you  everything;  my  whole  life  will  not 
be  sufficient  for  the  acknowledgment  of  your  services!" 

"Monseigneur,"  interrupted  Ethel,  in  a  grave  voice, 
"the  heroine,  the  valiant  woman,  she  who  expected  no 
recompense,  who  knew  the  danger  and  coolly  faced  it, 
she  whom  your  legends  announce,  and  who  has  saved 
your  people  and  your  child :  it  is  not  I — it  is  Helia!" 

And  taking  Helia  by  the  hand,  Miss  Rowrer  made  her 
pass  in  front  of  her,  while  she  herself  stood  modestly 
back. 

"Ah!"  gasped  the  duke. 


STRICKEN  IN   TRIUMPH  471 

There  was  a  little  of  everything  in  his  "Ah!"  A 
man  falling  from  a  balloon  must  utter  such  an  "Ah!" 
when  he  crashes  against  the  ground. 

Meanwhile,  twice  the  cheers  burst  forth.  Hymns  of 
welcome  were  intoned,  for  silence  had  been  kept  till  then. 
The  duke  had  appeared  to  be  addressing  himself  to  both 
the  young  girls.  The  people  did  not  know  exactly  which 
one  might  be  the  duchess;  but  their  enthusiasm  knew 
no  bounds  all  the  same.  A  great  eddy  pushed  the  crowd 
in  a  mass  along  the  way  to  the  castle,  amid  the  blare  of 
trumpets  and  rattling  of  rifle-shots.  The  voivodes 
formed  the  archway  of  steel  above  the  heads  of  the 
duke  and  Helia,  followed  by  Ethel.  Endless  cheering 
saluted  them :  "Long  live  the  duke !  Long  live  the  duch- 
ess !  Long  live  Morgana ! ' ' 

' '  Well ! ' '  thought  Caracal,  ' '  this  is  getting  to  be  amus- 
ing. I  had  thought  all  my  chances  lost,  but  they  are 
coming  back.  Miss  Ethel  is  still  free !  Helia  a  duchess ! 
Well,  stranger  things  have  been  seen;  but  all  the  same 
it  is  funny.  After  my  *  House  of  Glass'  and  'Worms 
from  a  Dung-hill'  I  shall  study  from  nature  a  ducal 
marriage  and  make  it  a  roman  a  clef!  I  shall  write  up 
every  class  of  society— bourgeois,  peasants,  and  princes ! 
He  certainly  will  marry  her:  you  can't  trifle  with  an 
oath  among  such  a  population  of  fools;  there  are  cur- 
rents you  can't  stem." 

And  so  Caracal  shouted  louder  than  the  others : ' '  Long 
live  Morgana  !  Long  live  the  duchess ! ' '  Then  he  offered 
his  arm  to  Miss  Rowrer,  who  refused  it ! 

"What  are  they  crying  'Long  live  the  duchess!'  for?" 
she  asked  Caracal,  as  they  issued  from  beneath  the  steel 


472  FATA  MORGANA 

arch,  surrounded  by  children  who  wafted  kisses  toward 
them  and  bombarded  them  with  flowers.  Caracal  re- 
counted the  oath  which  had  been  taken  in  presence  of 
the  people,  and  before  God.  The  duke  had  sworn  to 
offer  the  heroine  his  titles  and  his  throne. 

"Poor  duke!"  thought  Ethel;  "he  really  believed  it 
was  I — otherwise  he  would  have  sworn  to  nothing.  Well, 
let  it  be  so !  We  shall  see  if  an  oath  is  a  sacred  thing, 
or  if  women  are  only  dolls  for  amusement.  We  shall 
see  if  the  duke  is  a  man ! ' ' 

Ethel  now  knew  the  whole  story.  On  the  yacht,  that 
very  evening,  she  had  chanced  to  hear  Helia  talking 
with  Suzanne.  Their  few  words  had  been  a  revelation 
to  her.  She  had  already  imagined  what  now  she  knew. 
The  cow  painting  in  the  Luxembourg,  the  whole  little 
combination  invented  by  Caracal,  all  the  coarse  horse- 
play—ah! if  Phil  thought  she  was  going  to  think  less 
of  him  because  of  it,  how  mistaken  he  was!  All  that 
was  about  as  important  to  her  as  Mr.  Charley's  hair, 
brushed  like  a  horse's  mane,  and  his  velvet  trousers 
—less  than  nothing  at  all!  But  Phil  had  other  rea- 
sons to  blush  for  himself,  indeed.  She  understood 
his  embarrassed  air  when  he  spoke  of  Helia.  That 
he  should  promise  marriage  with  an  oath,  should  give 
hopes  of  happiness  to  Helia  and  lift  her  above  her 
position,  and  then  thrust  her  back  into  her  hard  life — 
that  Phil,  a  Christian  and  an  American,  should  do  a 
thing  like  that !  Ethel  also  knew  the  duke's  love-making 
to  Helia.  Poor  Helia!  simply  a  plaything  for  those 
two  men! 

She  looked  with  admiration  at  the  splendid  couple 


"  The  duke  stood  alone 


STRICKEN  IN   TRIUMPH  475 

before  her, — the  duke  and  Helia, — without  a  glance  at 
the  two  men  beside  her — Phil  and  Caracal. 

Helia  was  superb.  The  red  lights,  shaken  by  the 
wind,  illuminated  her.  The  popular  enthusiasm  was 
beyond  description ;  the  crowd  pressed  forward  behind 
the  torch-bearers  along  the  way.  They  touched  her 
garments  like  the  relics  of  a  saint.  The  women  lifted  up 
their  children  to  make  them  see  Morgana.  Young  girls 
sang  in  chorus,  while  young  men  twirled  their  sabers 
aloft  in  warlike  rhythm. 

All  at  once,  above  the  crowd,  far  away  in  the  moun- 
tains flames  arose ;  the  bonfires  blazed  up  on  each  side 
of  the  bay  and  over  the  cliffs.  An  immense  blaze,  like 
a  giant  torch,  threw  great  shadows  and  blinding  streaks 
of  light  over  the  city.  Its  glow  appeared  through  the 
night,  leaping  over  space  from  peak  to  peak,  to  the  far 
horizon,  where  it  mingled  with  the  stars. 

Helia  and  Ethel  were  amazed  at  the  grandeur  of  the 
sight,  and  at  the  loving  ardor  of  the  crowd,  in  whose 
eyes,  too,  the  flame  seemed  burning.  Their  own  beauty 
struck  everybody;  surely  the  new  duchess  would  be  the 
most  popular  that  Morgania  had  ever  known,  to  judge 
from  the  delirious  enthusiasm  let  loose  by  her  presence. 

"What  has  taken  hold  of  them?"  thought  Helia. 
"One  might  say  I  had  done  something  extraordinary." 

Helia  for  a  moment  was  separated  from  Ethel.  Be- 
yond them  the  way,  lonely  and  bare,  mounted  up  to  the 
castle.  Guards  watched  over  the  approach.  High  above 
them  the  stained-glass  window  of  Morgana  reflected 
glitteringly  the  torches  and  bonfires.  In  a  few  steps 
more  Helia,  on  the  duke's  arm,  would  leave  the  people 


476  FATA  MORGANA 

behind  her  and  mount  up,  followed  by  the  nobles,  to 
the  Hall  of  Ancestors. 

But  just  then  there  was  a  great  rush  forward,  and 
as  Helia,  in  real  fright  at  this  wild  enthusiasm,  pressed 
against  the  duke,  she  felt  a  sharp  pain  between  her 
shoulders.  She  gave  a  little  cry,  and  struggled  toward 
the  open  space  before  her ;  but  her  breath  failed  and  she 
fell. 

' '  Oh,  the  coward ! ' '  she  murmured.  ' '  He  would  never 
have  dared  strike  me  to  my  face ! ' ' 

"What  is  the  matter?"  the  duke  said,  grasping  her  in 
his  arms,  "  you  are  bleeding!" 

' '  Oh !  what  has  happened  ? ' '  asked  Ethel,  who  came 
up  at  this  moment,  followed  by  Suzanne.  " Helia!  what 
has  happened  to  you  ? ' ' 

' '  He  has  killed  me ! ' '  said  Helia. 

''It  is  he  who  has  done  it!"  cried  Suzanne,  with  a 
terrible  look,  searching  for  some  one  in  the  crowd. 

"He- who?" 

"Socrate!" 

It  was  indeed  Socrate.  But  he  was  no  longer  there. 
He  had  already  disappeared  into  the  shadow,  seized  by 
avenging  hands,  mangled  by  a  people's  fury,  trampled 
under  foot  into  blood  and  mud ! 

Helia  had  guessed  rightly.  Socrate  had  come  on 
board  the  Columbia  at  Marseilles,  where  they  had  hastily 
taken  on  firemen.  Under  the  exasperation  of  want,  he 
took  this  occasion  to  follow  Helia.  He  had  learned  as 
he  prowled  around  the  circus  that  she  was  going  to 
Morgania  on  Miss  Rowrer's  yacht,  and  he  was  not  the 
man  to  let  go  his  prey. 


STRICKEN  IN  TRIUMPH  477 

The  events  of  the  last  day  above  all  else  had  stirred 
him  to  fury.  Helia  a  duchess !  Helia  in  grandeur,  while 
he,  the  misunderstood  genius,  should  drag  out  his  life  in 
an  attic!  Ah!  you  will  not  be  mine?  Then  you  shall 
be  no  one's!  He  had  seized  the  occasion  and  planted 
his  knife  between  Helia 's  shoulders. 

"Helia!"  sobbed  Suzanne.  "Do  you  hear  me?  An- 
swer ! ' ' 

But  Helia  did  not.  The  duke  and  Phil,  terrified,  bore 
her  to  the  throne-room.  The  torches  cast  a  tragic  light 
upon  the  group.  Immense  shadows  lengthened  them- 
selves out  before  them.  The  duke  and  Phil,  bearing 
Helia,  slowly  advanced.  The  hall  opened  high  before 
them,  lighted  dimly. 


CHAPTER    X 

"ON  YOUR  KNEES!" 

THEY  laid  Helia  down  at  the  foot  of  Phil's  picture, 
on  the  great  ancestral  throne  on  which  the  duke 
had  hoped  to  seat  himself  beside  Miss  Rowrer. 
The  iron  candelabrum,  hanging  from  the  arch,  lighted  the 
hall.  But  Morgana 's  stained  window,  more  than  all  the 
rest,  blazed  with  sanguinary  flashes.  This  time  it  was 
not  the  sunset,  as  the  duke  had  described  it  to  Miss  Row- 
rer, when  he  showed  her  the  engraving  in  Paris;  it  was 
the  light  of  torches  and  of  the  giant  bonfire  shining 
through  it  from  without.  The  heroic  statues,  Thilda, 
Rhodais  the  Slave,  and  Bertha  the  Horsewoman,  seemed 
to  live  again  beneath  the  glow.  The  flashes  of  light 
from  the  window  seemed  to  make  them  palpitate.  One 
would  have  said  that  joy  swelled  their  marble  breasts 
when  Helia,  whose  bodice  had  been  undone,  and  whose 
wounds  were  bandaged,  opened  her  eyes  and  breathed 
freely  as  she  asked:  "Where  am  I?" 

' '  Oh,  what  a  fright  you  've  given  us ! "  said  Suzanne ; 
"but  now  you  're  saved.  Do  you  suffer?" 

Helia  was  not  suffering.  To  die  was  nothing,— b'ut  to 
fall,  struck  from  behind  by  such  a  man ! 

"If  you  had  been  there,  Phil,"  Helia  said,  speaking 

478 


"ON  YOUR  KNEES!"  479 

low,  "you  would  have  protected  me,  would  you  not? 
Oh,  with  you  I  should  fear  nothing.  Give  me  your  hand 
and  stay  with  me ! ' ' 

Phil,  with  downcast  eyes  full  of  tears,  took  her  hand. 

"Look  me  in  the  face;  why  do  you  lower  your  eyes, 
Phil?"  she  said,  so  that  he  alone  could  hear  her.  She 
added,  with  an  indescribable  regret  in  her  voice :  ' '  Have 
I  ever  reproached  you  ?  Look  me  in  the  face,  as  in  the 
old  days !  I  wish  you  to  be  happy.  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
be  sad!" 

From  the  city  came  a  confused  murmur,  like  the  noise 
of  the  sea ;  and  then  there  were  long  moments  of  silence. 
The  nobles  had  not  dared  to  enter  the  hall.  The  people's 
deep  anxiety  was  making  itself  felt.  Suzanne,  mean- 
while, was  arranging  the  cushions  under  Helia's  head. 
The  duke  had  gone  a  little  away. 

"Yes,"  he  was  saying  to  himself,  "Miss  Rowrer  will 
understand  the  sacrifice  I  am  making  for  her.  I  fail  in 
my  word,  it  is  true,  but  she  will  be  grateful  to  me  for 
not  having  made  Helia  her  rival.  As  to  the  people,  Miss 
Rowrer's  millions  will  make  them  forget  my  perjury." 

Ethel,  with  Caracal  at  her  elbow,  gave  to  a  servant  the 
basin  of  water  and  bloody  cloths.  Impassive  as  the  mar- 
ble ancestresses,  she  turned  her  clear  eyes  on  Phil  and 
the  duke. 

"Phil,"  Helia  continued,  as  she  pressed  his  hand, 
"you  promised  me  once— do  you  remember?— when  you 
loved  me,  in  the  old  days?  I  understand,  many  things 
have  passed  since ;  and  you  are  no  longer  the  same  man. 
Come  here,  Phil,  nearer,  nearer !  I  want  to  tell  a  secret 
in  your  ear.  I  have  loved  only  you,  Phil;  every  day 


480  FATA  MORGANA 

I  have  waited  for  you,  and  you  never  came !  I  was  mad, 
I  know ;  it  was  impossible !  But  when  one  is  young  one 
is  ignorant — and  I  believed  you!  Now  you  love  an- 
other. Phil,  I  forgive  you;  but  leave  your  hand  in 
mine." 

Phil  was  silent  and  red  with  shame.  Ah,  indeed,  he 
remembered!  Helia  felt  his  heart  beating  in  the  hand 
which  pressed  her  own.  An  intense  emotion  overpow- 
ered him.  He  had  the  fearful  calm  which  goes  be- 
fore a  storm.  Neither  the  duke  nor  Phil  spoke,  motion- 
less, by  the  side  of  Helia,  who  was  resting  tranquilly, 
while  they  made  a  room  ready  for  her. 

"You  can  get  up  and  go  to  it  by  yourself,"  said  Su- 
zanne. "You  're  safe.  You  have  n't  lost  much  blood 
— Socrate's  blow  missed!" 

"What!"  murmured  Ethel.  "Our  heroic  Helia  is 
going  to  die  in  the  presence  of  these  two  men  who  loved 
her,  without  one  of  them  asking  her  pardon  for  their 
false  oaths?" 

' '  They  accuse  me  of  being  cynical,  but  I  should  be  more 
loyal  than  that,"  said  Caracal,  with  his  gaze  fixed  on 
Ethel. 

"Look  at  your  work,  M.  Caracal,"  Ethel  replied, 
in  a  low  tone  of  contempt.  "Those  two  men  are 
your  pupils.  The  duke,  who  will  not  see  that  the  for- 
tune of  nations  is  courage  and  respect  for  promises — 
and  Phil,  whom  I  thought  more  noble,— look  at  him, 
blushing  with  shame,  lowering  his  eyes,— these  are  the 
men  according  to  your  heart !  They  are  the  men  who  con- 
sider woman  a  plaything,  and  abandon  her  when  she 
ceases  to  please !  I  forgive  you  your  Richard  the  Lion- 
hearted,  your  blackmailing,  and  your  infamies,  but  look 


"ON  YOUR  KNEES!"  481 

at  the  result  of  your  bad  example  and  ignoble  theories ! 
When  you  threw  Helia  at  Socrate  that  you  might  study 
passion  cheaply,  without  knowing  it  you  put  the  dagger 
in  the  assassin's  hand.  Helia  struck  down  from  behind, 
— it  is  your  work !  The  duke,  forgetful  of  duty  and  aim- 
ing at  Helia  for  his  mistress,  it  is  your  work !  Phil,  with 
his  false  promises,  is  worthy  of  you!  Two  men  spoiled, 
one  assassin,  and  a  dying  woman — look  at  your  work, 
M.  Caracal!" 

The  "subtle  observer,"  a  poor  human  rag  blown  down 
by  a  breath,  collapsed  into  a  chair. 

The  great  window  still  threw  its  burning  glow  upon 
the  throne.  The  marble  ancestors,  dimly  lighted,  seemed 
to  lift  their  heads  to  curse  the  feeble  duke.  They 
formed  a  circle  round  the  hall  and  the  throne  where 
Helia  was  resting— Helia,  brave  as  Rhodai's,  intrepid  as 
Thilda,  invulnerable  as  Bertha — Helia,  the  Morgana 
announced  and  foretold.  The  duke  was  pale  and  grave. 
He  looked  at  Helia,  and  then  turned  his  head  toward 
Ethel. 

All  at  once  Ethel  saw  Helia  rise  upon  her  elbow,  with 
one  hand  convulsively  grasping  that  of  Phil,  and  the 
other  signing  to  listen.  Through  the  half-open  door 
floated  a  far-away  melody,  so  weak,  so  far  away— Phil 
felt  its  thrill  in  his  heart. 

Le  roi  fait  battre  le  tambour 
Pour  appeler  ses  dames, 
Et  la  premiere  qu'il  a  vue 
Lui  a  ravi  son  ame. 

The  king  had  the  drum  beat 
To  call  out  his  ladies— 
And  the  first  one  he  sees 
Steals  away  his  soul. 


482  FATA  MORGANA 

It  seemed  to  come  with  the  sea-breeze  from  beyond 
the  murmurs  of  the  land.  It  was  the  music  of  the  yacht 
playing  the  air  chosen  by  Ethel,  that  air  which  Helia 
hummed  when  she  was  alone.  Ethel  had  foreseen  the 
hour  when  Helia  would  be  entering  the  throne-room. 
The  music  from  the  yacht  was  to  greet  her  triumph. 
Now  it  seemed  to  be  soothing  her  agony. 

" Listen,  Phil,  listen!"  said  Helia;  "do  you  remem- 
ber?" 

Phil  remembered  all  and  saw  all  once  more — his  first 
love,  the  little  Saint  John,  the  Louvre  paradise,  all  his 
promises !  His  youth  blossomed  in  his  heart. 

In  his  breast  rose  a  flame  which  burned  away  every 
selfish  thought.  Yes,  he  had  promised !  Helia  had  lived 
in  that  only  hope;  he  had  let  her  fall  from  the  height 
of  her  dream !  He  had  shut  off  the  future  from  her. 
He  had  dug  a  pit  with  his  selfishness,  and  pushed  Helia 
into  it  when  she  ceased  to  please!  He  had  turned  his 
back  on  her  despair ! 

It  seemed  to  him  that  a  giant  hand  was  bending  him 
low  before  Helia  and  a  voice  was  saying:  "Down  on 
your  knees!" 

Quickly,  quickly  and  low,  as  one  might  confess  a 
crime,  Phil  spoke: 

"Yes,  I  was  wrong — yes,  I  promised.  I  ask  pardon, 
Helia !  How  I  shall  thank  God  if  he  will  let  you  live, 
that  I  may  blot  out  my  fault ! ' ' 

"Oh,  Phil!"  murmured  Helia. 

' '  I  love  you  still, ' '  said  Phil ;  ' '  and  you  shall  be  my 
wife.  You  will  see  how  happy  we  shall  be— Helia,  for- 
give me!" 


"ON  YOUR  KNEES!"  485 

''Let  me  kiss  your  lips!"  said  Helia. 

Ethel  had  drawn  near,  followed  by  Caracal.  There 
was  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes. 

"See,"  she  said  to  Caracal.  "Glory  to  those  who  are 
struck  down  by  the  light  like  St.  Paul.  There  is  joy 
in  heaven  for  the  repenting  sinner!" 

"Will  you  ever  pardon  me?"  stammered  Caracal. 

"Perhaps;  tears  wash  away  many  things,"  added 
Ethel,  remembering  how  Phil  had  already  pardoned 
Caracal  because  he  had  seen  him  weeping. 

"That  is  a  man  worth  loving,  a  rare  thing,"  Ethel 
thought  as  she  looked  at  Phil.  Helia  now  was  sitting  up ; 
the  wound  no  longer  bled. 

"How  happy  I  am!"  said  Helia. 

She  wept  with  joy.  Phil  was  at  her  knees  as  in  the 
old  days.  "Listen,"  she  said,  "it  is  our  tune  of  the 
old  times,  Phil !  I  seem  still  to  be  there !" 

Phil  kissed  her  hands  to  hide  his  tears. 

"Phil,"  said  Helia,  with  a  timid  look  at  Ethel,  and  in 
a  tone  so  low  that  it  could  come  only  from  the  heart, 
"tell  me,  Phil,  am  I  really  fit  to  be  your  wife?" 

The  door  opened  slowly,  a  bright  light  burst  into  the 
hall.  It  was  the  voivodes  coming  for  information.  If 
a  misfortune  had  happened  to  one  of  the  maidens,  per- 
haps to  their  duchess,  when  they  were  on  the  spot,  sword 
in  hand  to  form  a  sheltering  arch  above  her — what  a 
shame  it  would  be  for  them !  If  the  duchess  was  dying, 
they  would  pray  for  her  on  their  knees.  They  ap- 
proached in  silence.  The  duke  had  drawn  near  Ethel. 

"I  love  you!"  he  said,  speaking  low.  "See  what  I 
have  done  for  you !  I  swore— but  I  thought  it  was  you. 


486  FATA  MORGANA 

There  is  still  time.  My  people  await  their  duchess. 
Shall  it  be  you,  Miss  Rowrer?" 

The  duke  held  out  his  hand  in  an  attitude  of  deepest 
respect. 

Miss  Rowrer  stopped  him  short  with  a  gesture.  She 
had  judged  the  two  men.  This  ruler  who  would  not  keep 
his  oath,  sworn  in  the  name  of  his  ancestors — he  should 
never  be  husband  of  hers.  To  her  titles  were  nothing, 
character  was  all.  Calm  as  Justice,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
straight  on  the  duke,  she  pointed  with  her  hand  to  Phil, 
kneeling  beside  Helia,  and  said : 

" That  is  a  Man !" 


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